It's elementary, John, I have a son
by Leonhard van Euler
Summary: Sherlock is investigating a murder in Privet Drive when he meets Harry Potter... And apparently he's his son. ON HIATUS. STORY BEING RE-WRITTEN
1. Chapter 1

_"You see but you do not observe, the distinction is clear."_

Sherlock Holmes  
-A Scandal in Bohemia

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Harry woke slowly, which was odd, seeing as he was usually woken by his aunt who instantly pulled him out of the cupboard under the stairs and brought him to the kitchen to make breakfast. Harry's stomach grumbled softly at the thought of food and he scowled at it.

Last night though, his uncle Vernon, a beefy, overweight man, had accused him of stealing his wallet, and had thrown Harry into the cupboard, shouting that his punishment was three days in the cupboard, no food, no water, no light and no fresh air.

Therefore, that meant Harry could sleep in.

He sat up slowly, aware that he'd hit his head quite harshly last night, and massaged the spot. Sharp pain shot through his head, making his eyes tear up and making him feel slightly dizzy. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting out, aware that his 'family', was, quite possibly eating their breakfast.

As the pain slowly ebbed away, he leaned forward, and quietly tried the door. He wasn't surprised that it was locked. Vernon had recently installed a new lock, after realising that Harry could pick them. With a frown, Harry leaned backwards into his 'bed' which really, wasn't more than a tattered yoga mat, a thin blanket, and a pillow stuffed with tea-towels.

There wasn't a sound coming from the entire house. It wasn't night, or early morning - Harry would have heard the snores (from Vernon, and his cousin Dudley) reverberating through the entire house. It wasn't anytime in the afternoon either, seeing as the sun set in the west, and the only window in the hallway in front of Harry's cupboard faced the east... and there was light shining into it under the door. Therefore it was probably sometime between nine to twelve - meaning that no one was home.

Vernon was working, Dudley was at daycare, and Petunia was either in the shops, or hanging out with her girlfriends. With a small smile of satisfaction, Harry pulled out two paperclips from his extra pair of socks (which he'd managed to steal from the washing machine) and started working on picking the lock. This one was more complicated - waaay more complicated... evidently Vernon had caught onto the fact that Harry could pick locks... and wanted to prevent it.

Harry personally though, thought of it as good practice.

After a few minutes of concentrated tinkering, there was a loud click, and Harry swiftly moved onto the next lock. As the last lock clicked open, the door swung open, letting a gush of fresh oxygen hit Harry's face.

He inhaled deeply, relishing it and knowing that, soon, he'd have to lock himself back in, so as not to get his punishment prolonged by Vernon. He clambered out of the cupboard with difficulty - at the young age of nine, he was starting to get a little too big for it. He'd always been tall - taller than Dudley anyhow... but now the cupboard was just too small for him.

With a small yawn, he stumbled his way to the kitchen which was almost clinically clean, and made himself a banana sandwich. Just as he was about to pour himself a cup of milk, the doorbell rang.

Once... then twice... then trice.

There were several different types of doorbell ringing - there was lazy ringing, or sometimes the simply bored ringing (usually a takeaway-delivery man)... sometimes even aggressive ringing. This was... somewhere between precise and impatient - someone who was used to doing this daily.

Harry paused, unsure whether or not to open the door. It definitively wasn't one of the neighbours... it just didn't sound like them. This sounded more like... _business_. Harry laid down his half eaten sandwich on a plate, and made his way back down the hallway.

The person rang once more - those three precise rings, and Harry frowned... was it worth the risk? Would the person then tell his aunt and uncle?

"Meh, I gotta live sometime." Harry finally muttered under his breath, and opened the door.

...

Sherlock had been running around _Privet Drive _for the past two hours, trying to find out any substantial information about the murder which had occurred a night ago, in front of the local pub.

The whole street seemed to be part of some local mafia community - none of them had seemed willing at all to volunteer information. Or... perhaps, it was his brash sort of behaviour which scared people away. Where was John when he needed him?

After he'd married Mary, John had almost stopped doing any cases with him at all. It was as if the safety of his wife was more important to him. Rolling his eyes at the sentiment all of the ducks around him seemed to be intent on displaying, Sherlock wandered down to _Privet Drive number 5. _

The curtains of the house were drawn, and the blinds in the upper floors were shut and if the lawn hadn't been so neatly cut, Sherlock would have thought that the house was abandoned. As he approached, he noticed one of the curtains closest to the door move a little, as if a person had just been peeking out.

His thoughts were confirmed when the door opened before he even had the chance to ring the doorbell.

The woman standing there was old. Her back was horribly hunched, contributing to her unappealing features, and making her look much smaller than she really was. Her face was worn, and her eyes a dull watery blue - yet somehow sharp. She had probably been stalking everyone and everything on that street for _several_ years. Emphasis on the _several._

"You're here about the murder, right?" She said in a hushed whisper as if afraid anyone was going to overhear her. Sherlock frowned at her odd behaviour but nodded.

"Are you with the police?" She asked frightfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out the ID he'd managed to pick pocket off Lestrade. The old hag squinted at the ID, and Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that the new badges didn't have photographs.

"Yes, my name is Detective Inspector George Lestrade."

The woman squinted at the at the ID again and looked up at Sherlock as if judging him, then she lowered her eyes again, staring at the small plastic card.

"Says here you're name is _Gregory _Lestrade." She said, sounding slightly suspicious as she leaned back and looked at him, head to toe as if wondering whether he could actually be a police officer. Sherlock glanced at the ID - she was right - before stuffing it into his coat. He'd always thought Lestrade's name had been Gavin... Apparently not.

Clearing his throat, he spoke, "Well, my friends call me George."

The woman regarded him a little less suspiciously, and smiled thinly, reminding Sherlock of a teacher. Then after a moment of silence between the two, in which neither party knew what to say, she finally clapped her hands together and gestured at something behind Sherlock - probably one of the houses.

"I'm not really the one to go to about gossip - I just spend my days playing bingo. You might want to ask Petunia Dursley - number four - she's the gossip queen around here." After another pause, she added, in a whisper, "She might be meeting with the little gossip club - but if she's not, then she's in the backyard using her long neck to peek into her neighbours's gardens."

Sherlock noted absently that the old hags facial expression had transformed into that of disgust and he wondered briefly whether this... 'Petunia Dursley' really was that bad.

"Nevertheless, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the neighbourhood?" Sherlock asked, feeling slightly impatient. Times like these were reminders why he had friends like John who would conduct interviews with people... He just couldn't stand them. At all.

The woman furtively glanced left and right in an exaggerated sort of way, as if expecting someone to be hiding in her immaculate garden. She then continued in the same whisper she had spoken in earlier, "Actually - the Dursley's nephew was doing the gardening in my garden a few days back," She said slowly, eyes wide as if expecting Sherlock to think this was an outstanding piece of information, "And a tall, old man - with an incredibly long white beard - dressed in... can you believe it - Robes! In Summer! Anyway, he stared at him - at Harry - the nephew for about ten minutes... and then he simply disappeared! Poof! And he was gone!" Her voice had become increasingly louder with each word she spoke and suddenly she was almost shouting into Sherlock's face - spittle flying everywhere.

Sherlock winced slightly and stepped back slightly.

"Very well, thank you... Mrs," He glanced at the doorbell which had her name printed out on top, "Jenkings... I ought to go and check on Mrs. Dursley. Goodbye." The woman smiled thinly at him again and slammed the door shut.

Ruffling his hair, Sherlock backed down the garden, crossed the street, walked up the immaculate garden of number 4, and knocked on the door.

...

The door swung open slowly and Harry slowly raised his eyes as he felt a shadow fall upon him. A tall man stood in front of him - well, his height was sort of average - but his long dark trench coat and upturned collar seemed to contribute to his height. Nevertheless, Harry had the feeling that this man's simply dominating and and slightly excessively lean body could tower over the tallest of men.

He had high sharp cheekbones and a very angular facial structure. His eyes were almond shaped and the light grey colour of his iris' made him seem colder than he was.

His hair was a dark mop of curls which fell messily into his face - reminding Harry slightly of his own hair. His hands were large and his fingers long - the hands of a musician. A violinist? He _did _seem to be one - well, he looked like one.

His clothes were good quality, probably expensive too. His features were aristocratic though, and Harry almost instantly concluded that he came from old money - perhaps a noble?

And when he spoke - his voice was a deep baritone - with an evident posh accent which confirmed Harry's earlier theory.

"Petunia Dursley?" He asked, looking down at Harry with something akin to curiosity. Harry frowned - wondering how he could possibly be interesting to anyone.

"Unless I have an extremely long neck and a tendency to speak in a shrill voice - I don't think I am her."

Then man's serious countenance didn't change - but Harry thought he saw a flicker of amusement behind the steely eyes. The man glanced behind Harry - actually - his eyes seemed to be constantly glancing about in an investigative manner and he seemed not to notice this as if it was a routine-like thing. Was he some sort of investigator? He wasn't wearing a police-uniform, and the coat, which flapped in the wind as if it was weightless obviously didn't have any guns in it.

"Are you investigating the murder?" Harry finally asked, causing the man's attention to flash back down at him. The man nodded and pulled an ID from his coat pocket - his hand moving slightly clumsily... Wouldn't a policeman, or an investigator, have mastered the art to swiftly remove an ID from a pocket?

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." He said, holding up the card. Harry didn't even bother to glance down at it, instead opting to stare back up at him.

"Nope," Harry said popping the 'p', "I don't think you are."

The man - who had identified himself as 'Lestrade' - frowned, and kneeled down to Harry's level, eyes intense.

"Curious..." He whispered, and stuffed the ID back into his pocket, "And how, Mr Potter, did you know?"

Harry was about to answer, his mouth opening already, when he noticed that the man had said his name. Narrowing his eyes, he spoke again, "How did you know my name?"

The man smirked - he seemed to be used to knowing more than other people. He gestured at the collar of Harry's shirt - or rather a shirt Dudley had decided wasn't good enough for him. It was a little big - and the marine blue colour had dulled up a little, but Harry couldn't see how it could tell someone what his name was. The man rolled his eyes impatiently and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"One of the curses of going to school - or daycare - or even having siblings is the fact that you have to put your name on everything. The back of your collar has H. Potter written on it. The most common name starting with H, is Harry - therefore, leading me to the conclusion that your name is Harry Potter. Your last name is different to your family's name - which is Dursley, therefore you are their nephew." He paused, taking in Harry's wide-eyed expression with amusement, and slight apprehension. "And... How do _you _know my name isn't Lestrade? Perhaps it is."

Harry scrunched up his nose, wondering if a man such as him would belittle him for stating his own observations... deductions. Yeah, deductions sounded right.

"Er... You're clumsy with an ID - not like a police officer would be... And you don't really look like a Lestrade." Harry finished with a meek grimace, and glanced up quickly only to see the man giving him a slightly appraising stare.

"It's a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts." He said, in the type of 'I'm-quoting-someone' voice teachers often used. Harry blushed slightly in embarrassment.

Then, to his surprise, a hand appeared in front of his face and slightly nervously, Harry took it. Glancing up, he noticed the man's cupids bow tilt up a little on either side.

"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,"

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**Idkw but I kept writing 'dark white eyes' as a synonym to grey eyes.**

**Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter/prologue... Leave a review if you want me to continue this story. XD**

**Thanks for reading! And happy new year!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hope you like the chapter. Please read the following announcement... if you are a beta-reader - and you like Sherlock/Harry crossovers, and you sorta like this story... please send me a pm! Thank you! I really urgently need a beta-reader. **

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Mycroft sighed deeply, frustrated. He rarely got frustrated, and if he did, it was usually because of Sherlock... or something his actions caused. The reason for his frustration, was the several-inch-folder lying on his mahogany desk, which was for once in his life messy - mainly because he hadn't been at his office for several days. He'd been up in Wales, investigating a newly reformed research intelligence association called Torchwood.

He rarely travelled out of London, hating the fact that his influence up north wasn't as large as down in London. Besides, he hated unfamiliar surroundings.

Glancing down at his desk, he sighed once more at seeing the large amount of documents which had accumulated there over the days. He'd have to clear that up later.

Sherlock often told him he had OCD - obsessive cleaning disorder - and Sherlock seemed to be trying to prove that he was the exact opposite by being as messy as he could possibly be.

Finally settling down in his steely armchair, he picked up the thick file and started to read.

The first few reports didn't really say anything - mostly that Sherlock had been behaving normally. Well... Normally for Sherlock. 'Normal' for Sherlock was usually Sherlock staying in the whole day - lying on his couch, staring at nothing in particular.

The pattern changed however, when Mycroft reached the report for Thrusday. Sherlock had left early in the morning and had, strangely enough, taken a train to Surrey. Surrey - of all places in England, he'd gone to Surrey. A further report from one of his agents was a photocopy of a local newspaper in Surrey - a man had been murdered brutally at the local pub. Sherlock had then returned three days later - on Sunday... and not alone.

Tagging along behind him, had been a child. A _child._

Raising the photograph closer to his eyes (alas - they weren't as good as they had once been), he examined the paparazzi-like picture. It was grainy - obviously it had been taken from a distance and on it, Mycroft could see a tired looking Sherlock looking around nervously, and guiding a boy - about nine or ten by the shoulder.

He was wearing a slightly dull blue T-shirt, and a pair of baggy worn trousers. Fastened on his feet were a pair of dark blue converse shoes - something that was currently popular with the teens, at least, that's what Mycroft had learned from his cousin thrice removed (who just given birth to her fourth child).

Unfortunately, Mycroft couldn't see much else of the boy, only his profile - which was remarkably similar to Sherlock's. He frowned as an idea popped into his head.

Surely not... Sherlock couldn't have possibly... No - it wasn't possible. Ignoring the little voice inside his head telling him that he was being an idiot, Mycroft picked up the telephone and dailing a number, he was instantly connected to his assistant. "Get a car. We're going to Baker Street."

...

_Several days ago..._

_Then, to his surprise, a hand appeared in front of his face and slightly nervously, Harry took it. Glancing up, he noticed the man's cupids bow tilt up a little on either side._

_"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,"_

Harry smirked at the man, "Pleasure to meet you 007." Sherlock didn't seem to get the reference and he cocked his head slightly, strangely reminding Harry of an otter.

"Uh... James Bond? They're comics... Uncle Vernon never let me watch the films thou-" He was broken off by a sudden tightening in his chest and a flashing pain in his head. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, his legs turned to jelly and he felt like puking anything he'd eaten in the last couple of days - which to be fair wasn't much.

He barely heard Sherlock's shout of surprise as he collapsed down on the pavement, head in agony as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

.

Harry felt his senses slowly return to him - each one of them... one by one. It was torture, waking up this way... and he had a few times in the past, whenever his uncle had made him go a few days without food. As finally, all his senses returned to him - and the smell of disinfectant (which always seemed to be present at the school nurse's office) assaulted him, he opened his eyes.

It was sort of anticlimatic really - he was somewhere surrounded by white - white walls, white ceiling, even a white bed... Wait - bed? Wriggling his fingers, he slowly made his hands and arms move - trying to make them to respond to him. They had oddly fallen asleep - probably because he'd been in a lying position for some time.

His blanket, he soon discovered, was soft, not dreamy soft, but softer than his blanket at home... not that that was very hard to beat. It was the type of soft the nice ladies on TV ads always seemed to be advertising.

An odd, rhythmic beeping sound suddenly assaulted his ears and he realised quickly that it was his heart rate - and glancing to the right, he saw a monitor displaying what he hoped was a normal sinus rhythm. Gently tracing the back of his right hand with his left, he found some sort of needle injected into it - and attached to that needle was a tube. Even with his blurred vision, Harry could see the IV transparent bag containing some sort of liquid and slowly but steadily dripping the liquid into the tube.

So he was in a hospital... The question was how?

The last thing he remembered was Sherlock Holmes introducing himself and then Harry explaining what 007 meant. After that, he had felt some sort of pain bolt up his head and then... nothing.

Reaching out with his left hand once more - the one free from any IV needles - he felt for a bed side table, which without his glasses was just a blob, which was a slightly darker shade of white than the rest of the room. His hand connected with the top of the blob and felt around until he managed to grasp a pair of glasses.

Finally slipping them on, he sighed in relief as the room came into focus.

It was a small room - and frankly very depressing. Somehow he had ended up in a private ward - which was odd, seeing as the Dursley's had never insured him... not in any way. Technically as an uninsured person he should have been thrown out of the hospital as soon as they healed whatever he had.

As his eyes wandered to his right, they widened in shock. Seated in a chair (but still somehow half-lying on the bed) was Sherlock Holmes. His hair was messy - messier than earlier and his eyes were shut - obviously he was asleep. There were bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for a long time, making Harry wonder how long he'd been at the hospital. The last time he'd seen Sherlock, the man had looked completely fine.

The door opened suddenly, making Harry jump slightly in surprise, and resulting in Sherlock's head falling of the bed and hitting the metallic edge. The man's eyes flew open and he instantly clutched his head, wincing slightly at the abrupt way he'd been woken.

Massaging the side of his head, Sherlock slowly straightened, finally sitting upright in his chair.

Harry grimaced himself and let out a meek 'sorry'. Sherlock glanced up at him expressionlessly, and then turned to the other person who had just entered the hotel room.

A nurse was standing there - blinking in shock - before her face transformed into that of a scolding mother and she tutted. "We already have one patient in this room with a head injury. Let's not make it two!" She exclaimed, rushing forwards to examine the monitor hooked up to Harry and shooting Sherlock a glare.

Her face softened when her eyes laid upon Harry, her glare melting away in an instant. She picked up a clipboard which had been laying on the monitor and scanned the page. "How are you feeling Mr Holmes?" She said with a sort of warmth Harry had never encountered within a person. Petunia and Vernon certainly didn't talk to him that way.

He was about to answer her when he registered what she'd said. Holmes. She'd said _Holmes. Holmes _not _Potter._ Glancing back at Sherlock, more than just a little confused and shook his head, which shot a flash of pain through it. Ignoring the pain - he'd had worse, he spoke to her in a small voice, "It's Potter, not Holmes."

It was her turn to look confused and she looked between Sherlock (who was rolling his eyes) and Harry with a raised eyebrow. A flicker of understanding flashed in her eyes and she smiled brightly. "Oh. _Oh." _She continued grinning and placed the clipboard back on the monitor. "He hasn't told you yet." She muttered.

Eyes brightly examining Sherlock, she winked at him in an almost sadistic way (wow.. She seemed to _really_ hate him), "Have fun explaining everything."

Then she disappeared through the door she had just come through.

Harry turned to Sherlock who suddenly looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat.

"Uh... You see Harry, you fainted in front of me. I called the ambulance and you were taken into the hospital. It turned out that you'd lost a lot of blood when you hit your head..."

_Flashback_

Sherlock massaged his temples, trying to ease the headache coming on. He was in the Royal Surrey County Hospital, currently waiting for news about the boy - Harry Potter- who a day ago, had fainted right in front of him.

He had instantly called the ambulance, which had arrived within the next ten minutes and then for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock had jumped inside, just as one of the medics was about to close the door.

The boy was somehow familiar, in some odd way. He had reminded Sherlock of himself when he had been younger... but not as closed off. The boy was obviously neglected by his family but somehow that inner innocence all small children had when they were small had stayed with him. All that optimism was still there - something Sherlock had lost at a very young age when his older brother, Sherrinford, had died.

He'd been sitting there - in front of the ER-Department - when a doctor, had come out of the room, with a grave expression on his face. He had then explained that Harry had a concussion and that he'd lost a lot of blood, resulting in him fainting. The next part had been horrifying too... if not more. The doctor had explained to him that Harry needed a blood transfusion and after a quick test of his blood, they had found out that he was an AB negative blood type - the rarest out there.

Sherlock had then (still in shock) explained to the Doctor that he was a type AB negative, and that he would be willing to do the blood transfusion. After that he'd suddenly felt responsible (something that didn't happen all that often) for the boy and had decided to stay till the kid was well again... and removed from his negletctful family.

And now he was waiting... Waiting for any results to come... waiting to be allowed into the room... He'd been waiting for about a day now, and was starting to get impatient. He'd been so bored he'd already solved the case.

It was then, just as he was about to go and ask for a doctor to explain to him the progress being done, one charged down from the research labs... straight at him. "Sherlock Holmes?" The doctor - a thin blond woman with dark hair and huge bags under her eyes - said as she nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

Sherlock nodded once, slightly confused... was something wrong with his blood? But no - they had already tested it, and Harry had already gotten the transfusion... so that couldn't be it.

"Well, uhm. Mr Holmes, one of my students - as you know this is a teaching hospital - was doing DNA tests for his examination. His practical genetics examination was made up two parts. In one part he had to compare two pairs of genes with each other and decide whether the two people were related or not. As yours and Mr Potter's genes were already there anyway, we decided to use them... You see..." She paused, blinking furiously from lack of sleep, "We thought you two weren't related but had the same blood type, and that would make it more difficult for the student to decide whether or not you are related. You stated to Dr Fredericks that you didn't know his patient. Anyway," She paused again, and Sherlock suddenly felt a little queasy... He had a feeling he knew where this was heading... and didn't exactly knew what it meant for him and Harry, "The student was then shocked to find that your DNA matched Harry's. So, congratulations... You are a father Mr. Holmes." ***1 (AN)**

With a nervous smile she tried to hand him the folder, but when he made no move to accept the folder, she placed it on the seat next to him, then muttered something about 'having to catch some late lunch'.

Sherlock sat there in shocked silence, staring ahead at nothing in particular. His mind was racing... thoughts were flying here and there, and couldn't really concentrate on anything other than those last words the research doctor had uttered. 'You are a father, Mr Holmes.'

After a while - he wasn't exactly sure how long... maybe it had been ten minutes, perhaps it had been an hour, Sherlock had the sudden urge to have it confirmed and with a shaky hand he grabbed the blue innocent-looking folder lying on the seat next to his.

With slight trepidation, he flipped it open and scanned the first page. At the bottom, it said: _Relation : Confirmed. _The second page, was a paternity test. He read this page carefully, and slowly, he lowered his eyes to the last sentence which said: _Paternity: Confirmed. _

He stared at the page with shock. He was a father.

...

When he finished his short recount of the last two days, Harry stared at him in shock - much like how Sherlock had done himself the day before when he'd received the results.

"You're my father?" Harry finally asked in a small voice and Sherlock glanced him over, marvelling how similar they actually looked. Now that he knew what to search for, he could see it, plain as day. He finally nodded when Harry gave him an expectant look.

"Yes, I am."

They then fell into a sort of awkward silence in which neither party really knew what to say. It was then, when Sherlock saw that Harry was dying to ask some questions that he spoke.

"You have questions, I assume?"

Harry cracked a small smile, and nodded, ducking his head in embarrassment. It suddenly stroke Sherlock how timid and shy the boy actually was... probably because of all of the neglect. Sherlock made a mental note to make sure that the Dursleys got a proper punishment. He knew that the hospital had already called child services the day before when they had found out from Sherlock how he had found Harry.

"Is Lily Potter my mother?"

Sherlock sighed. He had known that that question would come up, but he hadn't expected it to come up that quickly. He nodded once and placed his hands under his chin, resting his elbows agains his knees.

"Yes, she is. We met at Cambridge. She was doing a biology degree... Lily told me she had broken up with her boyfriend. She was smart, and funny... and beautiful... so we.. uh -" He broke of and scratched the back of his head, feeling the awkwardness in the room raise to such a level that he was sure that he he had a knife he would able to slice it. "Anyway, one day, she just disappeared and... Well, I never saw her again. I never knew that she had a son."

Harry fiddled with the IV tube but Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell him off.

"She's dead now. She and my father died in a car-crash." He said as he gazed into the distance. Sherlock winced inwardly, he hadn't missed the way Harry had referred to his step-father... The boy saw a dead man as his father... and not him.

"Am I going to live with you now?" Harry asked after a moment with an unreadable expression on his face which then suddenly - after a few moments - morphed into nervousness as he continued fiddling with the tube.

Sherlock was momentairly shocked by the question. Indeed... what would he do with his child? He'd never expected to have one in the first place - he had always thought he'd remain a lonely detective till he died. Not that he minded being lonely. Actually, he sort of enjoyed it.

Well... technically, John had moved out. He sometimes still stayed over when he and Sherlock got caught up in a case, but... John _could _sleep in the couch...

He couldn't exactly leave his _son _with child services. He'd either get placed in a children's home or with a foster family. If Harry stayed with him... Sherlock would be able to teach him so much... The thought of that almost brought a smile to his face.

He nodded once and smirked, "Of course."

Harry ducked his head once more, and as he did, Sherlock saw the corners of his lips raise slightly, obviously already anticipating living in a good enviornment, with a family and... well not with the Dursleys.

Strangely enough, Sherlock found himself excited too.

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**I hope you liked that. So far... I've been trying to make Harry not too much like Sherlock. I dislike fics in which Harry is a replica of Sherlock... I want Sherlock to slowly teach him everything about the science of deduction. **

**I'm sorry if Sherlock is a little ooc, but I suppose if you've just received then news that you have a nine year old son - you'd be pretty ooc too. I'm going to make him more of an asshole though... not as bad as in canon (cause Harry's there) but... yeah. I don't want it to be all soap opera-y.**

***1: I did some research about the DNA subject and I found out that if a hospital is a _Teaching _Hospital then they're allowed to use DNA from patients for examinations, practice etc. Technically though, it should be kept confidential. **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

_**Guest #1: ahah thanks for the review... hmmm... I actually never really thought about which timeline to set it in... I think I'll be setting it in the HP time-line... I'm not really sure though... It depends on whether I decide that the plot needs some advanced tech or not. **_

_**Sarah: Thank you!**_

_**Guest #2: No sorry... If Hermione comes in, then it'll be later on, when they're at Hogwarts. I'm not that fond of her**_

_**Me: Thank you! And yes! I am continuing it!**_

_**Marion: Merci!**_

_**Elizabeth: Thank you for your review! I hope your question is answered!**_

_**Kat: Hahah thanks for the review... and yes, I have continued it!**_

_**branchkk: Thank you! **_

...

_**For my German-speaking readers: I am translating this story into German to improve it - my friend and beta reader Emil von Sinclair is correcting the mistakes... I have uploaded the story and if you want to... glance into it XD It would be greatly appreciated.**_

**...**

**Kudos to everyone who noticed the Doctor Who/Torchwood reference. **

**Reviews are welcome XD**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for staying with me so far! Wow... This story has been so successful so far. *_* Thank you so much. I always answer reviews... so if you posted an anonymous review in the previous chapter, you can find the answer at the bottom. **

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John tugged at the back of his ear, staring at the two items laid out in front of him, wondering which one to buy for Sherlock. He hadn't seen his 'partner in crime' for about a month now. He and Mary had been gone on holiday for three weeks, and after that he just hadn't really found time for the consulting detective.

When John came over to 221B, it usually ended up with him staying up late with Sherlock, solving a case and then skipping or sleeping through work the next morning... and as a soon-to-be father, he couldn't afford that. His wife was eight months pregnant, there was no way he could stay away that long that many times a week.

He had to be there for his unborn daughter... and his wife. John smiled blissfully as his thoughts turned to his wife. Ever since the Magnussen fiasco had been prevented (albeit by cold blooded murder - John still shuddered when he thought about that evening), his wife had become more open, lighter somehow. She'd told him everything there was to tell and then more.

Blinking rapidly, to bring himself back to the present, John continued staring at the two items. He and Mary were having dinner with Sherlock tonight, and she had told him to buy Sherlock a small present - after all they hadn't seen each other a long time now.

He was in the clothing department in Harrods - he'd managed to sneak away from the clinic at lunchtime - and was trying to choose between a new blue scarf and forest green scarf with a magnifying glass pattern. Glancing at the price, he winced slightly at the cost. Then again... this could technically be a Christmas present for the last two Sherlock had missed while he'd been 'dead'.

He was about to reach for the one he'd chosen when something solid crashed into him, knocking all the air out of him and leaving him gasping for breath. John straightened himself slowly, trying to regain his balance.

"I'm so sorry, mister! Sorry!" John spun around at the sound of a small boy's voice and the slightly scolding look on his face softened to a small smile. A boy was standing in front of him - a tall, severely lean boy (almost dangerously so) with the most brilliant green eyes John had ever seen... And a bandage circumferencing his head - had he been injured recently?

"No, no, it's quite all right," John said with a smile as he straightened his jacket and smoothed out some wrinkles on his shirt. "Are you all right?" He asked, gesturing at the bandage. The boy looked confused for a moment before he shrugged.

"Uh - I hit my head, had to go to the hospital." He shuddered for a moment and John felt a small spark of amusement. Most patients were usually co-operative... then there were others who absolutely despised hospitals and would do anything not to go to one... people like Sherlock.

"Are you better now?" John asked tugging at his ear. The boy nodded and then winced slightly - his injury probably still hurt.

"Yeah - I got released today. My guardian and me are buying some welcome-back-home clothes now."

John wondered briefly who this boy's guardian was (who shopped so casually in Harrods) - and he felt a flash of sympathy. This boy had probably lost his parents and was now forced to live with an assigned relative.

"Good, good," John muttered and smiled at the boy as he picked up the blue scarf he'd chosen for Sherlock. "I ought to pay this -"

Before he could even finish his sentence, the boy darted forwards, grabbed the second scarf (with the magnifying glass pattern) which John had been considering earlier and chucked it at John.

"He'll like that one better," the boy said with a wink and disappeared down the next isle, leaving John standing there, blinking confusedly. How had the boy known the present was for a man.. and that wink?... Who was that boy?

Shaking his head slightly to clear his mind from weird theories already zooming around (Mary often joked that with the amount of ludicrous theories he could cook up, it was strange that he still hadn't become the neighbourhood's gossip queen), he glanced at the two scarves again...

Smiling slightly, he snatched the patterned one and put the blue one back in it's place. He couldn't wait to see his friend again - it seemed that Sherlock was pretty much the only thing in his life that never changed - he and everything around him - would always stay exactly the same forever.

Oh, how very wrong he was.

...

Harry pushed his glasses up for the hundredth time that hour, eyes wide with excitement as they sped across the paper. He was sitting, cross-legged in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace (which had curiously lit itself while he'd been reading an exciting scene, which had made his heart race with anticipation), with a thin blanket covering his thin form as he read a book Sherlock had given him earlier in the day. It was quite a hard read, but Harry was enjoying it so far.

To be frank, he'd never read such an exciting book in his life... and he'd read many. Dudley had always made fun of him when they were smaller and when Harry had asked Petunia to go to the library (to which she had said no). He'd been so happy when he'd started school and had finally been able to go to the library during the breaks.

He was right in the middle of reading a scene in which a young boy, by the name of Albert challenged The Count (Albert's father - but Albert didn't know that yet) to a duel, when Harry heard a cough from across the room, startling him so much he almost fell out of his armchair.

Two short figures were standing in the doorway. The one on the left, was a woman and was just a little shorter than the man on the right. Her facial expression was kind - if a little shocked and Harry noticed with a small frown that she seemed just a little jaded - as if she'd given up on life itself. She was pregnant though - heavily... And Harry supposed that a child should be enough reason to live on.

Glancing at her left hand, Harry wasn't surprised to find a ring.

A thin, elegant-looking golden ring circumferenced the fourth finger on her left hand - which indicated that she was married to the man on the right, who wore a similar matrimonial ring, although it seemed to be heavier and bulkier. The wearer of this ring, looked if possible, more confused than the woman. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was slightly open. His greying hair had dropped into his eyes, but he had made no move to flick it back into it's position. In a way... there was something about him which reminded Harry of a hedgehog.

There was something familiar about that face, and a few seconds later, when Harry's eyes wandered down to his other hand - which was holding a familiar patterned scarf - he realised where he had seen the man. He was the one from Harrods! The man seemed to have come to the same realisation as he spoke suddenly, a remembrance flashing through those eyes.

"You're the boy from this morning!" He exclaimed, while his wife (well... Harry assumed she was his wife) jabbed him in the ribs, perhaps trying to show him that he was being slightly rude.

"Well, I don't really recall ever being _on _'This Morning', ***1(A/N) **I think I would remember chatting with Holly and Phil," Harry said with a smirk. He'd never been allowed to watch 'This Morning', although his aunt Petunia absolutely adored watching the morning television show.

His comment elicited two completely different reactions. The man simply looked agitated and slightly shocked and the woman chortled to herself, hiding - or rather trying to - her mirth behind her hand.

Smirking at them again, Harry's eyes wandered back to the book - after all, he _was _at a very interesting, plot-twisting point in the story.

_'Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why should I seek to make myself better than God?' _Harry read quietly to himself, heart hammering in his chest. '_Poor young man!' Monte Cristo muttered, so low that even he could not hear these words of compassion as he spoke them. 'It is written that the sins of the father shall be visited on the sons, even to the third and forth generation-'_

Harry was once more interrupted by a loud cough and he raised his eyes, glaring at the couple. One thing was coming to 221B and wait patiently for Sherlock (who had explained on the taxi ride to London that he was a consulting detective), the other was to disturb the inhabitants of the flat (who weren't even remotely connected to Sherlock's job) by annoying them.

"What?" He demanded rather acerbically and instantly regretted it when he saw the slightly offended expression on the man's face. The woman however looked like she had just realised something and was staring at Harry with amazement.

"Uh... Sorry." Harry muttered quietly, ducking his head as he rubbed his bandaged head. The man's lips turned upwards in amusement and his previously hard eyes softened.

"Who are you?" He added softly as his wife placed a hand on his shoulder as if to steady herself.

"Well..." Harry started, about to reveal his identity, when a figure, much taller than anyone in the room, stalked in. And with that baritone-yet-smooth voice, Sherlock said:

"He's my son."

...

_"He's my son."_

There was a moment of silence in which no one really dared to move, dreading to make a sound. In fact, it was so silent, that Harry could hear the clock ticking from his room. _His room. _Even just thinking about it... the fact that it was _his _room, made Harry feel a sort of warm thrill flow through his body.

It was odd, too, to be claimed in such a way. 'He's my son'... The words reverberated in his mind pleasantly. No one, _not a single person, _had ever said such a thing about him. Sure, the Dursely's had occasionally said, 'that's my nephew'... or 'that's my cousin' etc, but they had always said in a sort of disgusted way, as if they were ashamed that they had to claim him in such a way.

Glancing back at the couple, Harry noticed the man staring between Sherlock, his wife (who looked rather calm at this revelation - she must have figured it out earlier) and Harry, who just grinned back at him.

"Wait... You _knew?" _The man exclaimed, staring at his wife, eyes wide. She rolled her eyes at him, "Why else would a _child _be in _Sherlock's _flat, reading a book beyond his age group?"

Sherlock smirked at the last comment and Harry felt warmth spread through him when he saw a flash of pride flicker in the detective's eyes.

"Harry, this is my insufferable _friend,_" He spat out the word as if it was poison in his mouth and Harry had to stifle a chuckle of irony. He'd always craved to have friends, it seemed... Sherlock was the complete opposite. "John Watson, and his wife, Mary Watson. John, Mary, this is Harry, my son."

With that, the man disappeared into the kitchen, probably to relieve himself of his coat and scarf.

John still seemed a little shocked, but nevertheless offered the armchair opposite Harry, to his pregnant wife and pulled the chair standing next to the desk.

"Wow. Sherlock's not a virgin."

Needless to say, his wife smacked him on the head.

"John, just because you lost you virginity at a very late point in your life, does not mean that we all did-" John was spared of hearing Sherlock's other insults, when Mrs Hudson interrupted him.

"Yoo hoo!" She exclaimed, radiating warmth and comfort. Harry had just met her that morning when Sherlock had brought him to 221B and had explained the situation to Mrs Hudson who had been ecstatic to hear the news. She had congratulated them profusely, and had then proceeded to make scones for Harry who had eagerly dug in. She was perhaps, the closest to a mother figure Harry had ever had in his whole life.

"Oh! Hello Mary, John! I hope the boys aren't driving you mad. One Holmes is difficult enough to handle - oh their poor mother! She had to take care of two!" She paused and smiled at all of them, before revealing a tea tray. "Have fun with a third Holmes boy!" She said stepping away from the doorway, and revealing a rigidly standing man dressed in a posh, pressed, grey three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella.

His nose was slightly upturned nose which stuck out rather prominently on his face, making Harry wonder whether big, odd noses was a thing in the Holmes family. After all, Mrs Hudson had said the new man was a 'Holmes boy'... Uncle perhaps?

Sherlock sighed exasparetly, and waved a hand at his... brother? "Harry, may I present to you the most abominable human being on this planet. My stalker, Britain's Big Brother, and unfortunately my brother and your uncle, Mycroft Holmes."

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**I am really UNhappy with this chapter... The first time I wrote it, it was fine, then I forgot to save it, and closed my laptop. I then wrote it again, and it was just crap, so I _re-re-_wrote it. **

**...I'm still not happy... So when I finish this story, I will completely rewrite it. **

***1 - For basically anyone who isn't British, 'This Morning' is a morning television show... It's basically a mixture between two presenters who are constantly laughing (Phil and Holly), a little bit of news, interviews with celebrities, cooking and advice on health/coming out/which shows to watch etc. It's a very popular show in Britain...**

**Hehehe... See if you can find the Doctor Who reference in this chapter. *hint* its the title of an episode. **

**Anonymous reviews:**

_**Guest 1: Awawa thank you! **_

_**A Loving Fan: hehe... well, I look forward to the follow! Thank you!**_

_**Sarah: Thank you for your review... haha -yup that was John's reaction **_

_**Guest 2: Thanks for bringing that up - I am by no means an expert on biology and a very thick person when it comes to blood types... Idk my own blood type. **_

_**Guest 3: Thank you!**_

_**Outsider: Thank you! And the reason why Harry fainted was because he hit his head earlier. I mentioned that there was a little blood. *_***_

**Thank you for reading.. and until next time!**

**PS, if you're an anonymous reviewer, can you please use some sort of pseudonym so that it is easier for you to find the answer to your review (that is if you decide to continue reading the story)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for reading so far. I've had several questions about what time-line the story is in. I have decided it's going to take place in Harry's time-line. Harry's timeline simply has too many dates which would be a pain to have to shift around. In Sherlock, however, dates are barely mentioned. Sherlock won't have a mobile though - which will be odd, as he loves texting.. Then again, I did some research and found that mobile phones (with SMS) _did _exist in 1989... which is the year in which this story starts.**

**Also, I was forced by a friend (Surawaldelfe) to upload this chapter the moment I had finished it. So... If you spot any mistakes, she has agreed to take the blame. **

**Enjoy!**

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_Surely not... Sherlock couldn't have possibly... No - it wasn't possible. Ignoring the little voice inside his head telling him that he was being an idiot, Mycroft picked up the telephone and dailing a number, he was instantly connected to his assistant. "Get a car. We're going to Baker Street."_

_..._

Mycroft wasn't surprised all that often, but on those rare times when he _was _surprised, the surprise was usually a big one. His very first incredibly shocking surprise had been when a woman - dressed in the oddest of clothes (robes!) - had appeared in his electric fireplace (which had oddly transformed into a real, wood-burning fireplace).

Other than the robes the woman had looked incredibly average, perhaps a little chubbier than most. She had then introduced himself as 'Millicent Bagnold - Minister of Magic' and had proceeded to introduce Mycroft to the magical world. The fact alone that magic existed, had thrown Mycroft - a man of science - into a state of shock... And the fact that _that _world had it's own schools, universities, shops, judicial system, food... even a _government! _had further induced him into another state of shock.

Millicent Bagnold had apparently, seen the need to introduce him to her world - she had said that in her eyes, he had more power than Margaret Thatcher, the current _muggle _prime minister. Honestly, Mycroft thought that Bagnold had been too intimidated by Thatcher - who had been introduced to office less than a year ago.

Then - a year later, in 1981 - the minister of magic had appeared in his fireplace once more... and had filled his entire office with soot and the smell of alcohol. Apparently, she'd been partying. And the reason for it had been very peculiar, according to her, 'The Dark Lord' - the man about whom she had spoken a year ago - had been defeated by a year old infant, who'd escaped the confrontation with nothing but a lightning bolt scar.

His name had been - or was (well... Mycroft _thought _he was still alive) - Harry Potter, son to a Lily and James Potter. That had been his last contact with the magical world for several years. Of course, there were brief meetings with his wizarding political counterpart - one Lord Lucius Malfoy - but other than that... nothing.

Well, not until now.

End of July, 1989, just several hours prior to ordering his car to go to 221B, Mycroft had been sent a report, regarding one Harry James Potter. The boy had been hospitalised, and had then disappeared. Mycroft had been too preoccupied with other reports and political disasters though, to read through the whole file... He'd once neglected to sort through three files, and had instead gone to bed early (well, to be fair, at the time he hadn't slept for over 72 hours). The next morning, the Angolan civil war had begun. Several people hadn't been pleased with him - especially Lizzie.

And with the Soviet War in Afghanistan now looming over the horizon, he wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

Nevertheless, Sherlock, his brother - was still his most important priority. And because of that, Mycroft was now going to visit him, if only because he was curious of the child Sherlock had taken to 221B.

...

Mycroft barely had to wait a few moments (in which, he had corrected the crooked door knocker), before the black, shiny door, with the golden plated 221B attached to it, had opened to reveal a very exuberated Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, Mycroft," She said warmly and Mycroft smiled politely, noting that she looked and behaved in a remarkably similar way to his own mother. "I wasn't expecting you! Come in, come in."

She led him into the dark hallway which then forked into two and led to two different flats, one upstairs - 221B - and the other straight ahead - 221A.

"Hang on a tick," She said, popping into her flat, "I was about to bring up a tea tray."

She emerged from her flat, carrying the silver tray (with good quality china) in front of her - she never brought _that _set out... Well, only for Christmas, and John's birthday - Sherlock had forbidden her to celebrate his birthday, apparently celebrations were something below him.

So what _was _the occasion? It couldn't be the boy - could it? Him arriving at Baker Street had been the only abnormal thing in the last three months... well, Sherlock _did _go out to buy milk last night (according to the reports anyway).

Frowning slightly, Mycroft climbed the stairs after her. There were loud exclamations coming from above, making him curious as to what exactly was happening. As he reached the top, it took his eyes a few moments to get used to the sudden light - after all, the hallway _was _quite dark.

"John," Sherlock was saying, his tone already promising an insult, "Just because you lost you virginity at a very late point in your life, does not mean that we all did-" John was spared of hearing Sherlock's other insults, when Mrs Hudson, who had just stepped into Sherlock's flat, interrupted him.

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to keep his ragged breath under control. He glanced down at his slightly bulging stomach... No, Sherlock was wrong - he _wasn't _chubby. Turning his attention back to the situation at hand he just caught the last part of Mrs Hudson's motherly rant.

"...Have fun with a third Holmes boy!" She said stepping away from the doorway, and revealing him. Mycroft however, just stared after her - had she said _third _Holmes boy? Blinking rapidly, his eyes zeroed on the only unfamiliar face in the room... A small boy - perhaps nine or ten - sat in John's large winged armchair, staring straight back at Mycroft.

His hair was inky black and fell messily on a milky-pale face. His features were patrician making Mycroft think that although the boy was dressed in clothes worthy of the homeless, he still looked like he was of aristocratic decent. He was curled up in the armchair, a blanket elegantly placed upon his thin form and in his hand he held a thick book... the name of which Mycroft couldn't tell from where he was standing.

The most prominent part of the boy's face however, were the eyes. They were an abnormal emerald green which Mycroft was convinced were being powered by magic. It was said that the eyes were the windows to the soul... and in this moment, Mycroft agreed with it wholeheartedly... Those eyes radiated intelligence, power and suspicion - yet there was something... there was something pushing all of that back... doubt?

Mycroft barely heard the following words which Sherlock spoke, and almost physically recoiled in shock when his brain understood what they meant.

"Harry, may I present to you the most abominable human being on this planet. My stalker, Britain's Big Brother, and unfortunately my brother and your uncle, Mycroft Holmes."

_Sherlock had reproduced?_

_..._

The silence following that statement was so awkward that even Harry, who had absolutely no social filter, could feel it. The only person in the room who seemed to have absolutely no problem with it, was Mrs Hudson. She was standing next to Mycroft, wringing her hands excitedly - having already placed the tea tray on the coffee table.

Harry's eyes wandered over to John and Mary who were looking between Sherlock and Mycroft with slight apprehension... it seemed they had some historical tension.

Perhaps... Mycroft was a wild character - and Sherlock had to run after him the whole time, picking up the pieces and repairing everything? After all, Sherlock had so far, been quite a responsible person. Then again, it could be the other way round... Sherlock _had _after all, introduced Mycroft as Britain's 'Big Brother'.  
Harry searched his memory briefly, and with a small triumphant grin, he remembered the book he'd read about a year ago - _Nineteen Eighty-Four_, by _George Orwell. _***1(A/N)**

The man (George Orwell) had described the future he foresaw - a future in which every citizen was under constant surveillance by the authorities, mainly by telescreens. The phrase used to remind these individuals that there was something watching them had been 'Big Brother is watching you'. Since then, the title Big Brother had become a synonym for abuse of government power, often specifically related to mass surveillance.

Was it possible that Sherlock had been exaggerating? Or was Mycroft Holmes - his uncle (he had an uncle!) - really part of some conspiracy?

Switching his gaze back to Mycroft Holmes, Harry wasn't surprised to see that the wheels in the man's mind were turning. If Sherlock was that intelligent, and Harry himself was intelligent (he wasn't afraid to admit it now that Vernon wasn't around), it was bound to be a family thing.

"What will Mummy say?" Mycroft finally said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Harry scratched the back of his head... what was it with the posh accents? Everyone turned to stare at Sherlock, waiting for his reaction.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Well, she'll have to accept the new addition to the Holmes House. He is my son." Sherlock said with a sort of finality and Harry felt himself blush slightly. "He will not continue living with those... atrocious _pigs._"

Mycroft glanced at Harry with narrowed eyes, then turned back to Sherlock. "Was he A-B-U-S-E-D?"

Harry frowned indignantly and stood up (both the book and blanket falling in the process), "I might not be Sherlock, but I _am _intelligent! Please speak directly to me if it's something concerning me!"

Mycroft looked slightly shocked at his small outburst and leaned backwards. Sherlock however, shot John a smirk and his friend responded with a roll of his eyes.

"Very well," Mycroft uttered, awkwardly resting both of his hands upon his umbrella - obviously he didn't deal with children very often. "What is your name?"

"Harry," he said with a small smile and offered his hand. Mycroft smoothly took it and shook it. they both (for the sake of their dignities) tried to ignore Mrs Hudson's cooing.

"Harry Holmes, pleasure meeting you. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Do not listen to whatever you father says about me - it's probably not true. I am simply Sherlock's brother and I occupy a _minor_ position in the British government."

Harry smirked in response and winked at Mary who was coughing rather violently, uttering the word 'minor' here and there.

"Hang on, who's his mother?" John said tactlessly and Harry almost had to slap his forehead. Once again, everyone in the room turned to look at Sherlock, curious. Sherlock let himself fall into his own armchair - a modern looking black leather piece of furniture which looked like it belonged in some business men's house - and folded his hands in a praying position, just below his chin. Harry had seen him sit in that position on the way to Baker Street and concluded that it was his 'thinking position'.

"When I was at University, I met a woman-"

Mary interrupted him, looking very amused, "So what was it like? Boy meets girl. Boy knocks girl up. Boy disappears. Boy gets a surprise ten years later?"

Sherlock shot her a glare and sniffed indignantly, "Actually, it was; Girl disappears."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in interest, eyes intensely examining Sherlock. Mrs Hudson disappeared into the kitchen, but came back quickly, carrying two chairs, one for Mycroft and one for herself. Mary and John exchanged a concerned glance.

Seeing everyone was still staring at him, expecting more, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She disappeared one day. Harry told me on the day he woke up in the hospital that she had died in a car accident when he was small. He grew up with her _family,_" Sherlock said, disgust tainting the last word.

"And how did you find out that... Harry was alive?" Mycroft asked, gesturing at Harry who stared back innocently.

"Harry was hospitalised, I accompanied him on the trip. He needed a blood transfer and I volunteered."

There was another long silence in which Mycroft suddenly turned his head and stared at Harry with wide eyes, which frantically bore into his bandaged forehead.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said slowly, still staring at Harry, "Was Harry's mother coincidentally called Lily Potter?"

"Yes." Sherlock finally muttered, raising an eyebrow in confusion. Mrs Hudson, Mary and John both shot each other confused stares.

Mycroft closed his eyes... in defeat? When he opened his eyes again, Harry was surprised to find them filled with emotion - something they had been lacking from the first moment Harry had met him.

"And I am then correct in assuming that your full name is Harry James Potter? Son of the late Lily Potter née Evans and step-son to James Charlus Potter?"

"Uh," Harry started, but noted that his voice was failing slightly and he cleared it, "Yes... That's what the Dursley's told me. How do you know?"

Mycroft let out a brief mocking chuckle. "You will not _believe _the political disaster this will cause!" He seemed to be talking more to Sherlock than anybody else in the room as he stood up and swivelled round to face his brother. "Have you ever thought about anything thoroughly, Sherlock! What are you going to do now?! Are you going to enrol him into a school? Give him a proper education? What about Mummy? And child services? Did you talk to them before you decided to _kidnap _Harry from the hospital?-"

"Do not _dare _judge me, brother," Sherlock spat, his eyes blazing with anger as he stood up as well. Everyone else in the room shared concerned glances. Harry bit his lip. Well... at least his deduction had been proven right - they _did _have a shared history.

"I was _young. _I made some horrible mistakes when I was younger. _HE _was a mistake!" Sherlock said blindly waving a hand in Harry's direction. Mycroft answered with something, but Harry barely heard him.

Suddenly the air around him was suffocating, everything was pressing down on him. He felt panic settling into his stomach - which was doing anxious flips. Sherlock _didn't _want him. He was a _mistake. _When he'd woken up a day ago, at the hospital, Sherlock had been sitting at his side and he'd explained the situation to him... He'd explained to Harry that he had a... _father._ And that he _wanted_ him. Harry had finally felt like he'd belonged.

All his life, he'd been forced to wear a mask... to not let anyone see him hurting inside. He'd hid some of his deepest concerns and secrets into some of the deepest recesses of his mind... When he'd met Sherlock... his _father, _someone who finally _accepted _him, he'd let some of those defences drop.. and now... He wasn't wanted. He'd just been.. a _toy._

It was with those thoughts that he suddenly felt the need to run.. and he did - ignoring the shouts from behind him.

And he ran; out the door, down the street, then another, and another...

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**I hope that wasn't too depressing.**

**Thank you for reading so far - the success of this story has been mind-blowing. So thank you. **

***1 - Nineteen Eighty-Four is an incredibly awesome book. If you like books about conspiracies.. politics... etc. That's the book for you. Srsly, it's magnificent.**

**Hmm... I don't think there are any references in this chapter... if I made one accidentally - don't hesitate to leave it in a review (✿◠‿◠) **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Opinr: hahah - well... there you have the next chapter!**

**KK: Yes, I think so too... Mycroft _is _technically the 'Big Brother'**

**Bass Player: Well... I've cleared the time-line thing up. You brought up an interesting point... Yes, this is an AU Harry.. Not incredibly AU - He doesn't have any other superpowers or anything, he's just more intelligent and a little rude, with no social filter. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Thalia Al Ghul: Thank you so much! I live for cliffies!**

**Sarah: I'm glad it was amusing! I hope Mycroft's reaction lived up to your expectations!**

**LiAlH4h2o: Thank you for your other reviews too! I love a little sarcasm... Harry just has a little bit than most XD**

**Guest: Thank you, thank you, thank you! That's very kind of you. And you should definitively read 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. It's been my fav book since I was about 13. It's seriously incredibly well written... It takes some time to get into though... it's a little boring at some points because the story moves a little too slowly.. but other than that - it's incredible!**

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**AND HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO YOU ALL!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I want to apologise in advance (for the short chapter) but right now, I was writing fanfiction partly to distract myself and partly because I wanted to dedicate something to my late grandfather. **

**This is, I believe the perfect opportunity to dedicate this story to him... He died recently. I cannot even begin to express the heartache I am experiencing. My grandfather was 'the perfect human being'. Kind, thoughtful, intelligent (urgh, I've _never _beat him at chess in my entire life), respectful... he had a passion for science, chess, his wife (honestly, it was like he was falling in love with her more and more with every second he spent with her) his family, the caspian sea, shoes, and smelling stuff before he consumed it. The fact is - I wrote a three page eulogy about him about how incredible he was and not once did I repeat myself. **

**So yeah, on that sad-ish note, enjoy!**

* * *

**_Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be grateful it happens in that order._**

**_~David Gerrold_**

* * *

_It was with those thoughts that he suddenly felt the need to run.. and he did - ignoring the shouts from behind him._

_And he ran; out the door, down the street, then another, and another..._

_..._

He ran for so long, and such a long distance, that when he finally stopped to catch his breath - he could barely stand on his own. Instead, Harry stumbled to the nearest brick wall and let himself slump against it. He'd always been fairly good at running - after all, he'd had to run from Dudley during 'Harry Hunting' - but after his concussion, running it seemed, wasn't the smartest thing to do.

Slowly lowering himself to the floor, Harry let out a sigh of exhaustion, his body was thrumming with adrenaline, but simultaneously he could feel his arms, legs, stomach... all burning like they usually do when overexerted. Yet...There was something... calming about running - that moment when the wind blew ruthlessly against his hot, clammy face - was probably one of the most refreshing and invigorating moments he'd ever had. That feeling... that he was free, free of the Dursley's... free of his own rapidly working mind... was the most brilliant feeling in the whole world.

Harry opened his eyes, not having realised that he had closed them and raised his smiling face to the dark sky which was just a shade lighter than the scarf Sherlock had been wearing the day before.

As that thought crossed his mind, the smile instantly dropped off his face and he subconsciously placed his hands beneath his chin, his face instantly opting a hurt and thoughtful countenance.

That moment when he'd woken up in the hospital bed, his head hurting, he'd been amazed to see that that exceptional man - the one who had questioned him at the doorstep - had come to see if he was alright. The next surprise had toppled his whole world and family view. Suddenly, he'd gained one more family member who had _seemed _to care about him... A family member who didn't abuse him verbally and emotionally whenever he pleased. Well... recent events had proven him wrong.

Had Fate decided to torture him? Had he done something so bad... that Karma had decided to 'restore equilibrium in the universe'? Was it his destiny to be loved and then rejected?

As a young child, he'd always believed, he'd always hoped, that a man or woman... or ultimately both, would arrive at the doorstep of #4 Privet Drive, claiming to be relatives of some sort. Eventually though, he got the message the Dursely's had been hoping to convey. No one was coming for him, his parents were dead so were all his other relatives.

After that epiphany, he'd thrown himself at books... Knowledge, he had known, was a way to shield yourself... It was ultimately, the best weapon out there. He'd used it to suppress his desire of love, his dreams, his hopes... and with it, he'd erected a wall of indifference around him - no one would ever hurt him again.

Yet, when Sherlock Holmes had explained to him that he was his father - and he'd shown proof too... and then Harry had allowed himself to be taken away. He'd allowed himself to gently chip away at that wall he'd erected - to reveal a small doorway through which his desire for a caring relative had slipped through... In a way, his mind was a pandora's box.

He'd allowed himself to trust... to trust a man claiming to be his father. Harry had been hesitative, he hadn't been sure whether or not to trust a mysterious man such as him - the modernised version of a knight... And now, it seemed his suspicions hadn't been unfounded. Sherlock had done the very thing, Harry had been scared he would do - he'd been rejected.

_"I was _young_. I made some horrible mistakes when I was younger. _HE_ was a _mistake_!" _

Those words echoed back to him, and Harry felt his heart tighten at those words. Hugging his legs to his chest, and tucking his head against his knees, Harry curled into a ball as the tears suddenly started to come.

Sobs racked his body, and with every shake, and every tear, Harry hated him more.

...

The moment the little boy ran through the door, everyone stopped talking, moving, or even breathing. Then slowly, John let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and his eyes zeroed on Sherlock and he winced. The man was staring at the doorway in pure shock... all that tension which had built up in his body while he'd been arguing with Mycroft seemed to have abated in one instant.

John let out a dejected breath, "Bit not good?"

Those words seemed to instantly pull everyone back into the present, and out of the corner of his eye, John saw Mrs Hudson dash down the stairs, one hand on her hurting hip - presumably running after Harry. It was no use though - John's military habits kicked in every time he was with Sherlock, and he had instantly noticed the way the boy's lithe body curled up in the armchair. There was no doubt that the boy was a fast runner. By the time Mrs Hudson was out of the building, Harry could already be running along the next block.

Mycroft instantly cleared his face of smugness (John frowned at that... how could Mycroft be smug about something like that?), and pulled out a long shining new mobile phone - the kind John had recently seen advertised in the newspaper - apparently they could now send proper text-messages.

"Dear God," His wife muttered next to him, clutching her stomach as she stared blankly after Harry. Mycroft was punching a few buttons on his phone as he turned around lazily - his back turned to Sherlock as he started walking to the door.

"I'll get my people to track down your son." He smirked, and turned his head slightly, so that they could see it's profile. "I'll take care of the 'mistake' as you obviously can't."

Then with a twirl of his umbrella and a small sigh of exasperation (somewhere in there - in Big Brother's heart... well somewhere deep down - was a man who loved Sherlock) the man, along with his imposing aura, left.

Sherlock remained frozen for a few moments... then he turned his sharp gaze at Mary at John (the latter had placed a hand on the former's hand) and with that equally sharp voice, he said, "You can leave the present in the kitchen."

Then with that, he grabbed his trench coat and scarf (the blue one) - which he didn't even secure around his neck, and with a swish of his coat (which oddly reminded John of a cloak) the man dashed out of the room, leaving John and Mary.

Mary placed a hand on her pregnant stomach and raised her serious-yet-sparkling-and-unique-to-Mary-eyes to stare straight back into John's. "The little one's craving bananas with custard again."

John groaned.

...

Sherlock had never been as glad as now that he had a network of homeless individuals who worked for him. Bill Wiggins, aka 'The Wig' - a man who had joined The Network only a few months ago, had quickly become one of the most valuable. He'd been on the streets for a long time, and was valued for his quick thinking... thus he was quite popular on the streets.

After joining The Network, he'd managed to introduce some other members into the society, and it had grown exponentially. The moment Sherlock had left 221B - he'd almost knocked poor Mrs Hudson over - he'd rushed over to the closest homeless individual wearing a worn, dull red band around his wrist - a sign that he belonged to The Network.

Throwing him a few pounds - with a hastily scribbled note inside - for Wiggins - he'd rushed down the general direction of the centre of town. Hopefully, his son (oh... it felt so odd to say _his son_) would be a predictable idiot and head into the more crowded areas of London.

Wandering around London was terrible at this time of the day, it was getting dark, and people were just coming out of their houses into the streets. Some were seeking to drink their troubles away, others were just socialising... the fact remained that the streets were completely packed, making Sherlock's search for Harry even slower than he had predicted.

Slowly, although he didn't really want to, his thoughts returned to Harry... The small little boy who had fallen under his care so quickly he'd barely had time to realise what he would do with him.

What _would _he do with him? What school would the boy go to? How could he tell his mother about this? Would she be disappointed? How could he even take care of Harry? Sherlock felt pent up frustration in him rise to the surface and he let out a growl - making the several people near him turn their concerned faces at him.

The one fact that continued to trouble him, and was nagging at the back of his head was Mycroft. How had he _known_? How had he known Lily Potter's name? He'd spoken to, and about Harry as if the boy had some immense amount of political power... But what power could a small little boy have?

Perhaps Lily Potter had been some sort of important person - going to university under a pseudonym? Sherlock ruthlessly and instantly crushed that idea... One of the first things that had attracted him to Lily from the beginning had been her irresistible charm and the fact that she hadn't behaved like a powerful person of any kind. She had walked into a room - and instantly it had lit up - but there hadn't ever been a sort of imposing aura which Sherlock noted was what Mycroft always brought with himself, wherever he went.

Harry wasn't old enough to have achieved anything of importance yet, and even _if _he had the potential to do that important thing, the Dursley's probably wouldn't have allowed it.

He smirked briefly, as his thoughts turned to the Dursleys. Those bastards would pay for what they had done to his son... child services were now dealing with them, and the weight of the Holmes name would probably make their punishment quite a bit longer.

Sherlock wasn't cruel by nature, but apparently gaining a son resulted in also gaining the protectiveness of a lioness. The thought brought a small grimace to his face - a few days into parentage and he'd already lost track of his son, made him seem worthless, pissed of Mycroft (although... he usually did that anyway), and compared himself to a female lion.

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt a gentle tap on his elbow and he swiveled his head around to the body attached to the hand. A small, weary looking woman was standing next to him, she was smiling faintly... but most importantly, she was holding out a piece of plain white paper. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement - completely ignoring the fact that social rules required him to say 'thank you' - and grabbed the piece of paper.

Anticipation welled up in him, and he unfolded the piece of paper, his eyes quickly absorbing the words.

A wave of triumph washed over him and he smirked again.

...

The street was easy to find, the house number as well - he'd recently checked the memorised plan of London in his head, to make sure that the newly built streets and houses were all saved there.

It was, however, quite hard to find his son... but when he did, Sherlock let out a breath of relief (and also triumph - it wasn't every day that he beat Mycroft at this - he _did _after all, have the whole MI5 and MI6 on his side). Harry was huddled into a small bundle-looking figure, and if it wasn't for the messy inky hair, Sherlock was sure he would have walked right past him, believing Harry to be a tramp.

As Sherlock slowly approached him - he was suddenly acutely aware of everything around him. The street was pretty much isolated - a drunk was walking wobbily down the road on the other side, his hands pressed against the wall for support, and a woman (dressed in the lastest fashion - not that Sherlock noticed that) at the nearest bus stop was snogging the brains out of a young man, who obviously had cancer, judging from the-

Sherlock forced his mind to stop working a thousand miles a minute. Deductions could wait. Right now, Harry was his priority.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I apologise to those who expected something longer and with more dialogue... and I promise, the next chapter will have more of both. **

**Also, I want to thank each and every one of you for... everything. The popularity of this story... well it's staggering... I just can't thank you enough. **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Jack: Unfortunately, _I _have been a victim of hearing that. Obviously, my parents did want me - but not so soon after my elder sibling. **

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**Guest 1: huh. You seem to like demanding stuff... but I suppose thank you. **

**Sarah: aawawaw you're one of the first to say that you liked his response! Thank you so much!**

**Guest 2 (I'm calling you literature guy from now on): Oh - you should definitively read the three musketeers! It's an incredibly well written book... it's a classic... but with action - not something one sees all that often. ahah - yeah they DO have sort of the same job... anyway, I hope you liked this chapter too!**

**Guest 3: BAHAHHAHA YeAH Im aN eViL PERsOn**

**IWasNeverSeen: *looks around* *can't see IWasNeverSeen* yup.. Sherlock behaved like the ass he often is XD**


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm back! With a new chapter. I've been very busy lately - I had several exams and a very important exam for Ancient Greek, aka GRAECUM... it's a relatively important and quite hard... I had to study quite a lot... anyway, this is the new chapter. I hope you like it...**

**Oh, and before I forget: I am currently co-writing a fanfiction with another fanfiction writer... It's a Rose/Ten (Doctor Who) crossover with Harry Potter... would you be interested in reading something like that? XD**

* * *

_Sherlock forced his mind to stop working a thousand miles a minute. Deductions could wait. Right now, Harry was his priority._

Harry had barely lowered his head to his knees when he heard footsteps approaching - even though they were soft and quiet, his keen hearing (which seemed to compensate for his horrible vision) picked them up immediately.

He remained frozen for a moment - unsure whether to run or not... after all, people weren't inherently good - they never had been. In essence, humans were very selfish creatures, who's main instinct was to survive... And surviving usually meant that they would be looking out for no one but themselves. Sometimes, people, if they had enough time.. or money, would indulge in satisfying their own desires - well, that was what the educational video the teachers at school had shown them.

Sometimes... these desires weren't completely innocent. Harry was about to jump up and flee the street, but the man - for now he knew it was most definitively a man (there was no way a woman would wear cologne such as that) - sat down gracefully next to Harry.

Harry didn't move - he had recognised that cologne... and the person - he had smelt the fragrance in the taxi on the way to 221B. He'd smelt it all over Sherlock's scarf, hell, Sherlock had bought another flask of it in Harrods!

"As I have already told you," Sherlock started, slightly hesitant, "Lily and me met at University. She was trying to get a degree in biology, more precisely, genetics. She was particularly interested in heredity and mutation. I was, at the time also in her course, and taking several others along with that. For our final theses we had to find a partner to examine our work and help us develop it further. Lily... was the only person who ever asked me to be her partner." Sherlock took a deep breath and Harry heard the sound of fabric moving against fabric as he removed his scarf. Harry swallowed but kept his head firmly burrowed in his knees. He wasn't going to show a sign of defeat this early on.

"At that time, I had started taking... drugs." Surprise surged through Harry as he heard Sherlock admit that. The shame in his voice was evident, as was the regret and hate. "I was a rather... unapproachable person. Of course, Lily found out. She tried to help me stop - well she tried to tell my brother - who had already installed several cameras into my dorm. I kept dismantling them of course. We finished our theses, and celebrated. By that time I had grown to..." Sherlock paused as if ashamed of his own feelings, "Care for her."

Harry slowly raised his head, intent on avoiding Sherlock's gaze, which he could feel on himself.

"We were intoxicated when..." He paused and Harry felt a small flash of amusement surge through him - was he really so embarrassed by talking about _that? _"we had sexual intercourse. Which obviously resulted in you."

_"He was a mistake!" _Those words echoed back to Harry and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from letting out a dry sob.

"I OD'd shortly thereafter. I woke up in a rehab facility. When I got out six months later, and returned to Cambridge, Lily was gone. As you can imagine, this threw me into another bout of despair. I ended up on the streets, doing drugs... again. After about three years of living on the streets and self-pitying myself, I got clean... then a job. I worked in a morgue for several years. Then five years before I met John Watson - who you met today - I started my own business as a Consulting Detective."

"The point is, Harry, you were an accident." Harry felt something clam up in his throat, and he considered bolting again. So it _hadn't _just slipped out of Sherlock's mouth earlier. He _did _mean it. _He was a mistake._

Before he could run, however, a cold hand dropped upon his knee, stopping him. "But a good one. You are a good accident Harry." Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes which were oddly sincere and open... yet at the same time very sheltered.

"I never expected that I would become a father. I have always believed that I am a sociopath... yet it has always been nothing more than a defence mechanism. Mistakes happen Harry, sometimes they turn out for the better. My own mother told me I was a mistake - my parents didn't really want me... but when I _did _happen they loved me very much."

By now he looked a little emotionally constipated, as if so many emotion-filled words were actually causing him physical pain. He fidgeted a bit with his scarf, twisting it around his nimble fingers and briefly reminding Harry that Sherlock hadn't seen the new scarf yet.

"I _would _love you to become a part of my life. I hope this feeling is mutual, although I do understand if it isn't..." He took a deep breath, "I, uh, apologise for my rudeness."

Harry swallowed again, trying to keep the barrage of emotions from coming out. His stomach churned as he tried to keep it in control...

It made more sense now, he supposed, his... father's life, his reaction. It wasn't something he'd expected, not by far, but he understood it in some way or another. He _was _a mistake... but not a _bad _mistake.

A small content smile slowly crept upon his face as Harry let his head fall on Sherlock's shoulder.

_He was wanted. _

...

Sherlock had sat there for a long time - well... it had certainly felt like a long time... - he hadn't felt quite sure _how _long though. He'd waited until Harry's breathing had deepened and he'd fallen into Hypnos' Land. Then he'd gathered the pre-teen into his arms and had called for a taxi.

It was odd... how one could end up becoming something, one had never thought one would become. Sherlock had never thought he would become a father... And although this was all very new to him, somehow Sherlock couldn't wait to see what the future would bring. The one thing he was most anxious about, was telling his mother about.. well everything. Of course, she would be supportive, just as she had always been, but... he was so afraid of seeing disappointment in those grey eyes. He would tell her... but not yet..

As he waited for the taxi, and as he stared at his _son, _curiosity overtook him... Mycroft had stated that Harry's mere existence could cause a 'political disaster' - how was Harry that important? Mycroft's curiosity had betrayed him - earlier when he'd been questioning Harry - his eyes had involuntarily glanced upwards at the bandage. During Sherlock's first meeting with Harry - oh, that seemed like a lifetime away now - he'd noticed the boy had a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead.

Tugging the bandage up, Sherlock examined the scar. It was a curious scar - cleanly cut - as if someone had deliberately taken a sharp knife and cut him. The scar couldn't be more than... eight or seven years old, it was too well healed for it to be new... So obviously the Dursely's hadn't created it. Perhaps Lily's late... husband had done it? But no, that wasn't possible... Lily would have never married an aggressive man, especially while she had Harry.

So the question was... who was Harry Potter?

Taking a deep sigh, Sherlock put that thought aside, intent on examining it later. He turned Harry's head gently, meaning to check his wound but was surprised to find nothing but a fresh tuft of hair and unblemished skin beneath it. How had Harry healed so quickly? Physically, it was completely and utterly impossible. And then, as he stared at that new tuft of hair, he was shocked to see it grow an inch or two, and transform into a new, thick strand of luscious hair.

Another question popped up, joining the other question on the quickly growing list of questions about Harry; What else could he do - and how was that 'power' powered? Emotions or will?

...

It had been a week since 'The Incident' - at least that was what Harry had started calling it. Upon his and Sherlock's return, Mrs Hudson had insisted on making them both a 'very strong cuppa', while at the same time insisting that she 'wasn't their housekeeper'. She had, a little apprehensively, stated that a package had arrived earlier that evening while Sherlock had been out. According to her, a sleek black car (she hadn't been able to identify the manufacturer) had pulled up to 221B, and a man, dressed in a suit, had stepped out, holding quite a large package. He had deposited it on the doorstep, and had then driven away.

Once Sherlock had done some thorough checks on the cardboard box he'd confirmed that it wasn't anything dangerous... And upon opening it, they had discovered a stack of documents from child services, some school recommendations and other official documents which Sherlock had taken away to read before Harry had been able to read the first word.

There hadn't been a name written on the box, not even a hint - Sherlock had even tried to dust the box to find some fingerprints but had come up with nothing. The fact was, they all (Sherlock, John, Harry and Mrs Hudson) knew that Mycroft had sent it, Big Brother just didn't want to admit that he was trying to help his brother and said brother didn't want to acknowledge his help.

The following week had been tense - Harry hadn't quite forgiven Sherlock and he hadn't quite gotten used to having a son. John came by every second day, and Harry honestly thought that the man was just visiting to make sure that he was still alive... and that Sherlock hadn't blown the flat up. John had been very kind... well, he was a generally kind man. He had even told Harry that 'He was there if Harry needed to talk about what had happened to him before he had met Sherlock.'

During the past few days he'd solved three cases two of which he had labeled as a 'five' and one as a 'four'. Obviously that was some sort of ranking system he and John had developed to describe the complexity of a crime. Harry had taken a peek at the 'four'-rated case, and he'd been baffled. A man had been murdered in a lift... while travelling down to the first floor. No one had been in there with him, there weren't any secret doors on the lift. Sherlock had somehow been able to deduce that the murderer had managed to kill the man with a... magnet of all things. The thing that had surprised Harry most, was that Sherlock hadn't even left the flat. He'd just looked down at the police report and he'd known the answer.***1**

On the seventh day after the incident, things had loosened up considerably - but not completely - and the three inhabitants of 221B were enjoying a quiet afternoon in the living room. John was lounging in his high-winged armchair, reading through old case files. Sherlock was huddled up in his own leather armchair, eyes staring into the distance as he mulled over something. Frankly, Harry had no idea what went on in his head, from what he had seen, Sherlock's mind was incredibly advanced - and apart from his brother, no one could surpass it. And that left him quite bored.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it of thoughts. He had to concentrate upon the book he'd been reading. Frowning down at the page he was at, Harry realised that he'd been reading the same paragraph for the past few minutes. There was one word, close to the end which he didn't know. He was about to ask John - as Sherlock had suddenly disappeared into the kitchen but then said detective marched back into the living room, carrying a large tank filled with water.

"Sherlock... what are you doing?" John asked in his usual 'what-the-hell-are-you-doing-voice'. He closed the case-file he'd been reading, placed it on the coffee table and pursed his lips. Sherlock threw him his typical 'I'm-doing-something-you-wouldn't-understand-glance'. He placed the tank on the table, forcing Harry to close the book and put it to the side so that it didn't get wet.

"Harry," Sherlock started, and held up a large marble - about the size of Harry's palm, "This is going to be an experiment."

John and Harry exchanged a bemused glance, and it struck Harry suddenly, that they often behaved quite alike - him and John. Sherlock rocked back and fourth on the balls of his feet - a thing which often amused Harry.

"Um... With the a ball and a water tank?" Harry asked sceptically. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and gestured to the marble, then in an over-exaggerated way, he lowered it into the tank. The water rose as the object was lowered deeper into the water, and lowered when Sherlock pulled it back up.

"The Ancient Greeks were the first to notice this physical phenomena - and Archimedes of Syracuse was the first to ever develop it. He noted that the water level rises whenever an object is lowered into it, and lowers whenever the object is taken out. He also explained how objects - such as ships - can float in the sea."

Harry exchanged another glance with John who shrugged, both having absolutely no idea what Sherlock was up to.

"I want you to prove the theory wrong, by lowering the marble into the water in a specific way, so that the water level doesn't rise." There was a hint of humour in his voice as if he didn't believe his own words. John let out an amused chuckle and picked the file up, probably intending to continue reading it.

"Sherlock, even I know enough physics to tell you that that isn't possible." He shook his head with amusement and glanced at his watch. "It's getting late, Mary's probably waiting up for me." Standing up, he stretched out his legs and yawned. "Good night, Sherlock, Harry."

The man grabbed his coat and with a carefree and happy smile, disappeared down the stairs. As the door to the building was closing, Sherlock and Harry heard a 'good luck' echoing back up to them.

"So... I have to lower the ball into the water in a specific way so that the water doesn't rise?" Harry asked dubiously as he stared at his father who shot him a smirk and gave him a nod. Harry gingerly took the ball from him and lowered it into the water.

It rose. He pulled the ball out, and the water level lowered again. Frowning intently, he tried again, and then again. And again, and again...

Little did he know his supernatural 'powers' were being tested.

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**I hope you liked the chapter. If you didn't... well... you can close this tab. **

***1 - there was a similar story in the Sherlock Holmes books, albeit with a locked room and not a lift, obvs. Elementary (another modern Sherlock Holmes TV show) also used this story in one of their episodes.**

**Anonymous Reviews:**

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**Guest: Thank you! I am horrible at dialogue... I am currently co-writing a story with another fanfiction author... and we've sort of divided the work in 'dialogue' and 'thoughts&amp;description'. XD**

**Guest 2: Thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

**So... I've had more time lately to write... so.. yeah. Enjoy!**

* * *

_It (the water) rose. He pulled the ball out, and the water level lowered again. Frowning intently, he tried again, and then again. And again, and again..._

_Little did he know his supernatural 'powers' were being tested._

Harry narrowed his eyes as he weighed the marble in his hand. It _had _to work this time - he'd been working on it for a week! Surely, some improvement had to show soon! It just _had _to work now - then again, that was what he had told himself over a hundred times now, there was no guarantee that it would work _this time. _

Slowly, ever so slowly, Harry lowered the marble into the water - he could see his reflection in the glass of the tank. Reflected on the glass, was a young boy - no older than ten or so - in fact Harry would be turning ten in a few weeks. The boy's face was scrunched up in concentration - eyebrows furrowed, and a frown marred his face.

Forcing himself to look away from his reflection, Harry switched his focus to the water level. Sherlock had, shortly after giving him the task, drawn a long, straight, horizontal, black line across the surface of one of the tank walls, so that Harry could see whether or not the water level had risen.

The man himself - Sherlock Holmes - was in the kitchen, hunched over an experiment. He kept mumbling things to himself, after that he would jot down whatever he'd been mumbling. Sherlock's experiment seemed relatively harmless - he had a jar full of water and a Petri Dish full of a dry reddish-brown substance. And knowing Sherlock, it was probably dry blood.***1(A/N)** Watson - for Harry had begun to call him that - was upstairs. He had cleared his room out a few days after Harry's arrival, but Harry had found a couple of his shirts under the bed - so Watson was now here to retrieve them.

Harry forced his wandering thoughts back to the experiment at hand and tried to keep his arm, which was starting to ache, steady. He was about to let out a cry of frustration, when he saw something happen - or rather _not _happen. Every single time, in the past week, the water had rippled when he'd lowered the marble into the liquid.

This time... the water hadn't rippled at all.

Heart beating horribly fast, faster than Harry thought was healthy, he continued with his task. And then slower than ever before - Harry relaxed his hold upon the marble.

Seeing it fall into the water, and hit the bottom without the water level rising, was surreal. He had just defied the laws of physics! By simply _carefully _lowering the ball into the liquid! He could hardly believe it - he'd managed to do it!

Harry let out a cry of triumph and almost instantly there was another shout of surprise from above, followed by the sound of someone tumbling down the stairs. Harry winced as John rolled into view - two wrinkled shirts clutched in his hands. The former army-doctor let out a wheezing breath as he tried to stand up. When he did, he rushed into the flat, limping slightly. He stared around wildly - something that was very unlike the man... Usually Watson assessed the situation carefully, thoroughly and very calmly - like a soldier standing in the middle of a battlefield.

"Harry!" His voice rung out through the flat, louder than Harry's cry of excitement - and causing Sherlock to jerk up in surprise; headphones which Harry hadn't seen till then, dropping out of his ears. "Are you all right?" John said a little quieter. Harry glanced delightedly between the two adults staring concernedly at him, an expression which Harry decided looked very out of place on Sherlock's face.

"It worked!" He exclaimed with a disbelieving voice. The two exchanged a look - eyes communicating with each other. Evidently, they had been fast friends for several years and understood each other well - even with just one glance!

Sherlock rushed forth, feet taking long, dragon-like strides and John tailing him - taking small, hobbit-like strides of his own.

As their eyes settled on the experiment Harry had been working on for the past week, John let out a large, disbelieving breath. "My God!" He exclaimed, "You've done it! God knows how... but you've done it!"

He tapped the tank with his finger, sending ripples across the water. Sherlock continued to stare on in silent amazement or shock - Harry couldn't quite tell - the man was turned away from him. Sherlock spun suddenly and scrutinised Harry's face, most probably looking for dishonesty.

He seemed to find none, because his face relaxed and he raised a delicate eyebrow. Behind him, Harry could still see John tapping the glass and giggling to himself - it was probably one of the most childish things Harry had ever seen an adult do and he cracked a grin.

Switching his focus back to Sherlock, Harry noticed the man was still staring at him with that confused/questioning stare.

"Pray tell - how did you do that?" Sherlock muttered more to himself that to anyone. Harry felt a surge of amusement rush through him - it was rather funny to see a man who believed so strongly in science, baffled by something so simple... well it _looked _simple...

"Um... I dropped the marble into the tank." Harry said with the 'Duh Voice'. Behind Sherlock, Watson let out a snort, earning a brief glare from the consulting detective.

"But... How?" Sherlock said, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Well... I just did it very slowly." Harry said with a shrug, and then gestured at the tank. "I can show you if you like...?"

"Please do."

In one practiced movement, Harry retrieved the marble from the tank - amusedly noticing that the water level hadn't lowered when he pulled it out. Glancing back at Sherlock and John (who had by now moved to stand next to the self proclaimed socio-path) - Harry confirmed that they were both watching him.

Gently, and concentrating upon his demonstration, Harry proceeded to do the same thing he had done earlier. Once more, he let go of the marble and watched it drop - grinning with excitement when he saw that the water hadn't risen above the black line.

Turning back to Sherlock and John, Harry saw them in various states of shock. John simply looked... well... shocked and delighted. Sherlock was staring intently at the tank, seemingly wishing very, very much that whatever he was seeing wasn't true.

"It's as if... the object has lost it's entire mass... Yet retained it's form," Sherlock said quietly. He shook his head slightly, and focused on John and Harry.

"I confess... I was expecting this," Watson and Harry exchanged a questioning glance, "The other night as we were waiting for the taxi, my curiosity got the better of me."

John snorted, "You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat."

"It also cured polio." Harry countered and earned a chuckle and a grin from Watson. Sherlock silenced them both with a glance.

"Harry had fallen asleep and I decided to check his wound... And to my surprise it healed right in front of me. Then suddenly a new patch of hair grew right in front of my eyes."

"I've always healed fast..." Harry said nervously, aware that he was being ogled at like one would stare at an experiment... or an animal at the zoo.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not this fast."

Watson was frowning - as a medical man Harry supposed that was all the more interesting for him. Or perhaps it was because Harry had said that he healed fast... Harry winced at the implications of that.

"So what's your explanation? Magic?" John said, his voice laced with sarcasm and scepticism. Sherlock's eyes glittered dangerously - looking as if they had been ignited with fire.

"Precisely."

...

Experiments upon experiments followed that very first one...increasing by the day... as did John's visits. He seemed concerned about the number of things Sherlock was now forcing Harry to do.

But honestly, Harry didn't mind. It was exciting... all these impossible tasks had brought out a power from within. It took time to complete each task - sometimes days... sometimes weeks, but when he did, he was rewarded by that triumphant feeling. It also helped that he could do minor... _supernatural _things.

Sometimes, when he was out with John in the park or the shops, he would mischievously attempt to use his impossible powers to prank people. They were always small things - and invisible tap on the shoulder here, and a pen switch there - everything else required more concentration. So far though, he had been able to move and make objects float, he'd also been able to vanish them, then call them back into his hands a few moments later. A sort of... teleportation... but for objects.

It was curious - this power. Sometimes, if he concentrated enough, he could feel it flowing through his body, and making him warm. The tips of his fingers and toes would tingle causing him to giggle like a teenage girl looking at pictures of her favourite celebrity.

Due to his rapid progress, Sherlock had started to make the tests harder and sometimes he would just suddenly declare he was going to do a test... This frightened John, he'd told Harry (on more than one occasion) to be careful and not put himself in danger.

And sometimes... some wonderful evenings, they would simply relax in the living room... talking or watching some soap opera. Watching soap operas with Sherlock was completely different than watching them with his aunt Petunia. Petunia would laugh - that horrible, cold, high laugh - and sob and shout at the characters. Sherlock was... quite different. He would shout obscenities (something which irritated John and Mrs Hudson) at the actors and try to deduce who was sleeping with whom and who was mad at whom. It was quite entertaining really.

Tonight though, was one of the less action-filled evenings... But it was an evening which changed Harry's whole perception of everything around him.

...

Harry was huddled up in his armchair - well... it was Watson's but he'd used it so much in the past few weeks that the former army doctor had given up on telling Harry to find another spot. Harry had wrapped a blanket - the one with the blue-box design on it - around himself and had been reading that day's newspaper when he'd been distracted by John and Sherlock and the topic they were discussing. Him.

"...I cannot believe you still haven't told your mother!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Sherlock shot him an annoyed look.

"Mycroft seems to be of the same opinion. I do not doubt, however, that my dear brother has already told my parents."

"And your parents still haven't come to London to see whether Mycroft was telling the truth?" John said incredulously. Harry felt a surge of unease about meeting his grandparents. He'd never socialised much - even before he'd met Sherlock and was therefore very anxious about meeting any other members of 'the family'. So far he'd only met Mycroft twice. Once on that horrible day, and once when he'd come to give Sherlock a case to solve. He wondered briefly whether the rest of the Holmes family was like Sherlock and Mycroft. Were they all that manipulative and cunning?

Sherlock snorted, "My parents believe everything he says. My mother, however, believes in 'giving me time to tell her'."

"That's... odd. My mother would have charged straight down to London to see her grandson," John replied in a wistful voice and Harry concluded that she was most probably dead. Watson suddenly cleared his throat and focused on Sherlock once more. "Fine. How about this. You take Harry to meet her... say, next week?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "No. We already have a prior engagement." Harry wondered what that could be... was Sherlock taking him to Harrods again? Glancing at Watson, Harry noted that he was also confused, then suddenly a flash of realisation graced his face and he turned to Harry, his boyish grin lighting up his face.

"Harry's birthday!" He exclaimed. Oh. _Oh_. Right... His birthday.John's face fell when he saw Harry's own unexcited countenance.

"Please don't tell me you forgot about your birthday...?" John said, his voice slightly pained. Harry cleared his throat nervously.

"Well... I don't... Uh... The Dursleys," He tugged at his collar, loosening it slightly. "Well... They never really celebrated my birthday." He saw the adults exchange a worried glance and he shrugged. "It wasn't bad though... I mean... I didn't mind."

"Well then," John said, "We'll just have to spoil you very, very much." He then turned to Sherlock and wagged his finger at him, "And you, are not off he hook. Take Harry to meet your mother the week after his birthday."

Sherlock let out a resigned sigh and nodded once, ending that conversation. Seeing John pick up a book, Harry turned back to the newspaper.

"Um... What does distin-distinguish mean?" Harry said, as he gazed down at the article he'd been reading before he'd been interrupted by their discussion. Sherlock let out a chuckle.

"It's when you point out a difference," Watson said, regarding Harry curiously. Before he could elaborate, Sherlock cut him off.

"Are the following words, and I quote; 'distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs'?" The consulting detective said. Harry read the sentence carefully and noted that yes - Sherlock was completely right. He nodded as he stared down at the article - which was admittedly quite hard.

"Ah, I read that this morning with Mary. Are we correct in assuming that you wrote the article?" John's question was directed at Sherlock who stared back smugly. Harry glanced back at the article. _By a man's finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt cuffs—by each of these things a man's calling is plainly revealed - _That sentence stood out from the article and Harry found himself wondering whether that was how Sherlock deduced everything about the people who often came to 221B to ask him to solve a case.***2(A/B)**

"Why yes, I did write that. It is an advertisement of sorts. And a guide on how to observe, deduce and then, _only _then, theorise."***3(A/N)**

"You said that you can see people's professions by observing them...?" Harry asked, eyes wide and sponging up every bit of information Sherlock told them. Watson didn't look very intrigued - Sherlock must have explained it to him already.

Sherlock smirked, "Well... step one is observation: You might notice John's rigid stature. He has a buzz cut - often used in the military. Sometimes, he smells of antiseptic. Stage two is deducing from the observations: Now, his rigid stature implies that his mother either forced him to go to dancing lessons, or he was a soldier. His haircut also implies military. Studies have shown that soldiers often have a hard time breaking their military habits - especially cutting their hair. Many former soldiers often keep cutting their hair as they did before - in the army." Sherlock paused for breath. "As I have already mentioned, John often smells of antiseptic. This further implies that he is a doctor. Stage three, is theorising: Is he an army doctor? Or a doctor-danseur. I personally favour the former."

Harry stared at Sherlock, glancing only briefly at John who was rolling his eyes and muttering 'show-off'. Obviously, Sherlock had already known all of that... but Harry still understood how he had come to his final conclusion. It was amazing... Sherlock had managed to deduce all of that a few seconds. Harry had always been observant - but this was on another level.

"Please teach me?" Harry finally said, his voice small as he stared at his father through his lashes.

Sherlock stared back, eyes slightly narrowed. John, who had stood up to leave, paused for a moment, as if waiting for Sherlock's response before he left.

"How would you like to go on a case with me - on your birthday?"

* * *

**I managed to throw in a couple of references... Kudos to anyone who noticed the Hobbit/LOTR reference, or/and the Doctor Who reference **

***1: It's a reference to the original Sherlock Holmes books. The very first time Watson meets Sherlock he's doing an experiment with blood and how one can, with some sort of chemical, manage to take the (dissolved) blood out of a litre of water. (- The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes)**

***2: Another reference to the books. Watson finds out about Holmes' deductive talents via an article in a newspaper Holmes published. (- The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - chp 2.)**

***3: Sherlock Holmes quote... I don't quite remember from what book... But yeah, he said it. :)**

**If you haven't yet read the books, I strongly urge you to. They are incredible. Absolutely incredible.**

**_Before I start answering the anonymous reviews, I would like to say that I am not planning to make Harry into a mini-Shelock. He will gradually become more intelligent... and he will gradually get better at deducing. It's not an instant transformation. _**

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Guest: thank you! And yes, I plan on continuing that throughout the story. It makes deductions more real if they are explained. **

**Mar91: Thank you!**

**Sarah: Thank you so much! I hope I can update soon!**

**Sethiel: haha I will try to!**

**Literature girl: haha I've always thought that writing a parent-Sherlock is lots of fun. I love it when characters who are geniuses have to suddenly learn to take care of another human being or smth. Thank you again - yes Sherlock is the type to do experiments when confused... haha I'm glad you liked that. XD Thank you for your condolences - it means a lot :)**


	8. Chapter 8 - PART 1

**Enjoy! - PART 1 OF CHAPTER 8**

_"Omne ignotum pro magnifico" _

_~Sherlock Holmes (The Red-Headed League)_

* * *

Harry had never been that excited to celebrate his birthday - not like Dudley anyway. Harry snorted at the thought of his cousin. It had been almost a month since he'd left the Dursleys - just a few days since Dudley's birthday 'party'... which mainly consisted of Dudley inviting a few friends to Burger King and them then cleaning out both the restaurant, and Vernon's wallet.

The Dursely's had never celebrated _his _birthday, they hadn't invited friends over, they hadn't shown him any affection whatsoever. In the last week, John and Sherlock had been... secretive, so to speak. At first Harry had thought that they were discussing a sensitive case, and thus didn't want his ears hearing anything... but then, they had started to suddenly clam up the moment he walked into a room.

That was... odd - Harry had always been a shy, shadow-like figure. At his old school, no one would usually notice whether or not he was there, he would just slip into rooms, footsteps light and almost completely void of any noise. So suddenly being the reason why two adults stopped speaking when he entered the room was a new feeling for him - a slightly uncomfortable feeling.

After much deliberation, Harry concluded that they were planning something... for him. For his birthday.

That thought alone - and the excitement that came along with it - made him wake up early on a Tuesday morning.

His eyes flickered open, revealing the ceiling of his dark brown coloured room. Right above his head, he could see a slightly darker smudge which was oddly shaped like Elvis Presley's head... Well, perhaps it was just a trick of the light. The bed squeaked as he launched himself off it and he winced slightly.

Grabbing his morning gown - a forest green gown - and slipped it around his shoulders, a small warm smile slipping onto his face as he hugged it to his body. There was a sudden knock on the door to his room and Harry raised his eyes to meet -

"Oopf," Harry let out as two strong arms engulfed him, holding tight.

"Happy Birthday, Harry!" Watson said, as he held on. Harry tried to reply, but his face was pressed tightly against John's warm chest. Finally, after a few moments, the former army doctor released him, but set both hands upon Harry's shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. After a few moments, Harry let his own joy appear on his face. A large smile slowly made its way onto his face.

"Thank you, John," Harry said as John released his shoulders and ruffled his hair. Watson then proceeded to reveal a package - seemingly out of nowhere. It was poorly wrapped, as if John had been in a hurry - or perhaps the shopkeeper was inexperienced?

The package was excluding a faint smell of... animal food? Harry had smelt it often enough when he'd been forced to go to Mrs. Figg's house - he recognised it. But why would John give him animal food? Perhaps the wrapping paper smelled like that - and not the actual content... Perhaps it had been in an environment which smelled of animal food for a prolonged period of time? Was John's gift something from a pet store?

"Go on," Watson encouraged as he gestured to the package. "I wanted to give this to you before your father whisks you off to Scotland Yard."

Harry gently took the package off him. He held it in his hands for a few moments, unsure what to do. He'd never gotten a present - well he _had, _the Dursley's had been _kind enough _to give him two pairs of extra socks once.

"Go on, unwrap it," John urged, hands folded behind his back - another of his characteristics which automatically screamed 'military'.

"I assume this is from a pet shop?" Harry asked, slowly raising his eyes to meet Watson's. Surprise glinted in those eyes and he grinned, shaking his head with bewilderment.

"Like father, like son," He said with a chuckle. "I guess the smell _is _a little strong."

Harry took hold of the edges of the paper and pulled back, excitement boiling up in him. As he ripped it apart, Harry was surprised to see a small tank filled with grass, water, several stones and a large rock with a small alcove. Large enough for a-

"A turtle!" Harry gasped as he saw the animal in question suddenly emerge from behind said large rock, swimming to the surface. Harry raced to the large tank Sherlock had given him to complete his first ever experiment. It was empty - Harry hadn't thought of it for some time, but it still stood on the windowsill. Gently, Harry put all the stones, grass and water from the small tank into the large one and then even more gently, he took hold of his small turtle. It wasn't bigger than his own palm.

It struggled in his hand for a moment, but when it noticed that Harry wasn't about to harm it, it relaxed. Harry's head swung back to John who was staring at him with a pleased smile. "Thank you, uncle John!" Harry said, his excitement evident in his voice.

John approached him, a broad grin plastered across his face. Maybe because Harry had referred to him as 'uncle', maybe because he obviously liked the present. He gestured at the turtle.

"This is a Box-Turtle. They're small, and aren't usually larger than five inches. They live about... 25 years." He said, as he patted the shell of the turtle. "This one's male." He said as an afterthought. Harry stared amusedly at the turtle as it started crawling around his hand. He smiled, and slipped the turtle into the tank. It - _he _\- paused for a moment, as if confused, then dipped downwards, diving into the depths of the tank.

Harry stared in amazement as the shelled creature swam around, glad to finally have some sort of freedom.

"So... what are you going to name him?" John asked. Harry shrugged, letting his eyes wander around the room, looking for inspiration. His eyes landed upon a book about astronomy (another thing John had given him - apparently Sherlock didn't know what the planets of their solar system were called. And while John had stated that Sherlock was a lost cause when it came to astronomy, he had been excited to teach Harry something he obsessed about). The author's name (of the book) was Clyde Tombaugh - an astronomer who had discovered pluto.

"I'll call him Clyde!" ***1(a/n)** Harry exclaimed suddenly. John chuckled, catching the reference.

"Clyde it is!"

...

221B's living room was covered in decorative birthday paraphernalia. Everywhere he looked, Harry could see posters, or banners, or cards wishing him a happy birthday. Even Sherlock's skull - well not Sherlock's own skull - but the one he used to think was covered with glitter. In the centre of it, stood Sherlock, looking decisively uncomfortable with the party hat/cone strapped around his head.

Harry and John stared at him for a few moments, both frozen in the doorway which led to the living room. John's mouth was open as he stared at Sherlock awkwardly giving them a smile.

"Happy birthday?" He said meekly, his good wishes sounding almost like a question. Harry grinned at him and rushed towards his father, arms quickly circumferencing his father's waist. He hugged him tightly, and after a few moments, he felt two arms slowly encircle him.

There was a sudden loud click and a flash and they both spun around, only to be caught in another click, accompanied with another flash. Harry blinked rapidly, the aftereffects of the flash remaining for a few seconds. As soon as he regained his eyesight, he focused on... Mrs Hudson standing in the entrance to the kitchen. In her hands she held a large camera. She was grinning from her ear to ear while her eyes held that eternal warmth as she stared at the two of them.

"My two Holmes boys," She cooed, as she clutched the camera to her chest. "Happy birthday, Harry." She added warmly.

John cleared his throat, looking serious, but Harry could still see that his was face full of amusement. "So... Breakfast?"

"Breakfast." Sherlock said with a nod.

...

It was surreal. This whole day was surreal. The presents he'd been showered with... The care and affection everyone kept showing him... Dudley had lived every day like this - no wonder he was spoiled.

Harry's eyes wandered up from his shoes to his father's and Watson's figures in front of him. Sherlock had received an address from (Gavin Lestrade? - Sherlock had breifly mentioned his name, but Harry hadn't been concentrating that much) via fax. Apparently, someone was missing, and the DI needed help from the only Consulting Detective in the world.

A taxi had let them out near the place, but they had to walk the remaining distance, something Harry had no problem with. He loved being outside - especially on the days he went on walks with Sherlock or John.

Harry heard the police before he saw them; the loud walkie-talkies strapped on every policeman's uniform created a cacophony of voices, overlapping with each other, making it hard for Harry to concentrate upon anything. As they walked around a corner, Harry was met with a sight he would never forget. At least half a dozen cars, painted in white and blue and proudly displaying the words 'police' on the hood, were parked in front of a large, posh looking house with a beautiful facade. Policemen dressed in uniform had dominated the quaint square in front of the house and were swarming around like a beehive full of bees.

"Freak!"

Harry's breath caught in his throat and his heart momentarily stopped beating. The Dursley's _here? _Why were the Dursley's at a crime scene? And why were they calling him? Hadn't Sherlock told him a few days ago that his uncle and aunt had been sentenced for ten years in prison for their treatment of him? Had the judge suddenly decided that was a bad decision and had pardoned them?

Questions swam around his head, making him feel dizzy. He took a steadying breath and composed him. _No. _The Dursley's weren't here. They couldn't be. They were imprisoned, and Dudley was living with Aunt Marge. Someone else was calling him a freak... was it that obvious that he was one?

_No. no, no, no, no. No! _He wasn't a freak! The Dursley's had been wrong to call him that. Sherlock had explained that to him, when Harry had asked him. He _wasn't _a freak and anyone who said otherwise, was _wrong._

Sherlock's head briefly swung back to Harry and the consulting detective sent him a reassuring smile. Harry lifted his head and tried not to show how affected he was to hear that word again - so full of malice.

"Over here, freak!" Once more, that voice rung out - further confirming that it wasn't a member of the Dursley family. This voice sounded female and young. Harry realised suddenly that the insult was directed at Sherlock, not him.

"Oi. Stop calling him that." John snapped back as they approached a crime scene tape. A dark skinned woman stood next to it - albeit on the other side. She wasn't wearing a uniform - but had a badge strapped onto her belt. Special op agent then? Or Detective Sergeant?

"I'll call him what I want." She sneered back, that facial expression making her ugly. Harry wondered briefly whether or not he should use his power against her. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sniffed the air.

"Been scrubbing floors lately?" Obviously this was an old insult, one that had been used many times before, because she sneered again. Her eyes had that 'oh, not again' look. Harry, however didn't see how 'scrubbing floors' was an insult. Was Sherlock insinuating something else? If so, Harry had no idea what it could be. ***2(a/n) **

Harry wondered briefly why the policewoman disliked Sherlock. Sure, the consulting detective could be a little brash at moments... but usually he was rather amicable. Was he really that different when he socialised with other people?

"Sherlock!" Another voice called out - this once definitively male and more authoritative. A man suddenly emerged from the crowd, dressed in a long trench coat - much like Sherlock. He wore a badge on his belt too, although, this one looked slightly fancier. Was he the woman's boss? Was he perhaps, the aforementioned Lestrade?

"Hello John," He muttered and nodded at said man, a small smile gracing his face. He shook both men's hands.

"Good to see you again." John replied with a small smile of his own. Harry's main goal for the day was to keep quiet and listen to Sherlock as he taught him things about deducing people and crime scenes - his nose, however seemed to disagree with the loudness issue. Harry had almost less than a seconds' warning, before a loud sneeze emerged from his nose. He shook his head slightly and blinked a few times before turning to the adults who were looking at him with either amusement or shock.

"Bless you!" Sherlock said ruffling his hair.

Harry glanced at John, only to see the army doctor staring between the two detectives, chuckling. "Uncle John?" He asked, very much aware that his voice sounded very small and insignificant. Why was John laughing?

The woman let out a chocked sound, "Uncle?"

This threw John into another bout of laughter, stronger than the rest. Harry stared at him with a confused frown. Sherlock clamped a hand upon Harry's shoulder.

"Harry, these are Inspector Detective Lestrade, and Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan." He gestured at the two detectives. "Agents, this is Harry Potter Holmes."

The two agents exchanged a glance and then turned back to stare at him. Harry conjured up a charming smile and extended his little hand to Lestrade, who after staring at it for a moment, shook it.

"You're an uncle? I never thought Mycroft would have kids..." Lestrade said as he let go of Harry's hand and focused on Sherlock. Harry shook Donovan's hand and saw her face soften a little. Harry's dislike for her didn't soften though, anyone who called someone a _freak _didn't deserve his friendship.

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. Mycroft wouldn't know how to get a woman pregnant even if he wanted an offspring." He paused and ruffled Harry's hair again. "No, as far as I know, I am not an uncle. This is my son."

A long pause followed that statement. The policemen continued running around them, yelling things into walkie-talkies. Donovan and Lestrade were both staring at Sherlock in shock. Harry frowned again. What was so shocking about Sherlock having a son? Was Sherlock really _that _different with other people?

"He's your son." Donovan said, repeating the statement. Her facial expression was distorted into that of painful disbelief. "...But how?"

"Do I really need to explain the birds and bees to you?" Sherlock answered, his voice sharp and cold. Harry blinked at him. Yep. He was definitively different with other people.

John cleared his throat, trying to break the cold atmosphere Donovan and Sherlock had created. "Didn't we have a case to solve?"

Lestrade instantly composed himself, he straightened his back, and suddenly looked like the authoritative agent that his badge boasted he was. "Yes, of course. Female, caucasian; Jane Ashleys, been missing for three days. Some evidence of violence was found in her house... 'Missing persons' isn't usually our division, but the Chief Superintendent said this is most probably a homicide, so here we are." He raised the crime scene tape, and let Sherlock and John through. He reluctantly let Harry pass under his arm.

"Are you sure you want to go in there, kid?" He asked scratching the back of his neck, staring at Donovan, Sherlock and John who had started walking towards the house. "I mean I can't really stop your father if he takes you in with him, even if it isn't strictly allowed. One phone-call from his brother and my career is toast." He paused, "But kids shouldn't be at crime scenes."

Harry shrugged, "Missing woman - not murder. I think I'll be all right. Sherlock told me he just wanted to show me how he works, and I want to learn about the science of deduction. And I promise I wont tell anyone - especially uncle Mycroft."

Lestrade sighed and shrugged, then grinned and extended his pinky towards Harry. "Pinky promise?" Harry grinned back and wrapped his own pinky around Lestrade's.

"Yeah, I promise."

They started walking towards the house, both feeling significantly more comfortable with each other than earlier. It was amazing what a pinky promise could do.

As they crossed the porch, Harry swung his head back to Lestrade, "I don't even know Uncle Mycroft's telephone number. And even _if _I had a telephone and I could call him, I wouldn't. I would order pizza."

Lestrade threw his head back and laughed - and that was the start of a great friendship.

* * *

**I'm not sure whether to write their first case together? Hmmm.. Should I? Would you be interested to read that?**

**Do you like Clyde the turtle? - did you catch the elementary reference? **

_**This is PART ONE of chapter 8. The next chapter will be about their case, Mycroft, and meeting the Holmes parents... I can't wait to write it!**_

**Oh, and I hope you liked the Lestrade/Harry friendship... I adore Lestrade c:**

***1(a/n): reference to Elementary. Another 'modern Sherlock' tv show. It's amazing. I've mentioned it a couple of times already...**

***2(a/n): Harry has just turned 10 years old... I don't think he's old enough to understand stuff like that. *shrug***

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Guest 1: haha your reviews always make me laugh... OH - EVERYONE LISTEN UP - TODAY, THIS GUEST REVIEWER HELD A PRESENTATION ABOUT TRANSEXUALS (IN RELIGION CLASS). WITH A CLASS FULL OF TRANSPHOBIC PEOPLE. I ADMIRE HER BRAVERY**

**mar91: Thank you!**

**literature girl: Thank you so much for your review! hahahah I'm still trying to find a way to put Andersen into the story...hmm... and his fanclub XD oooohhh I can't wait to write the Holmes family scene. XD**

**sarah: Thank you!**

**branchkk: Yes - I think I have the same edition as you - with the drawings as well. Its amazing! Omg, I should add some references from the original stories XD**

**sara: Glad you like it! Urgh... I've been trying not to 'overdo it'XD**

**Shadow carnival: oh wow... i hadn't thought of that... That is seriously making its way into the story now - thank you for the suggestion!**


	9. Chapter 8 - PART 2

_As they crossed the porch, Harry swung his head back to Lestrade, "I don't even know Uncle Mycroft's telephone number. And even if I had a telephone and I could call him, I wouldn't. I would order pizza."_

_Lestrade threw his head back and laughed - and that was the start of a great friendship._

...

Harry and Lestrade crossed the threshold - and a sweet, musky scent instantly assaulted Harry's senses. Blinking and looking around bemusedly, Harry tried to find the source of the smell. He saw Sherlock doing the same thing, their eyes met and the consulting detective gave him a small, almost imperceptible, approving nod.

Glancing at Lestrade and John, Harry noticed both men seemed completely oblivious to the smell.

"So. Gloves." Lestrade said as they reached a small intersection in the hallway - one arch led to what seemed to be a kitchen, one to another hallway, and another to a living room. Lestrade reached into his trench coat inner breast pocket and pulled out three sets of latex gloves.

"Sorry kid, I don't have a pair for you. I didn't know you were coming." Lestrade said, as he handed both Sherlock and John a pair. All three men simultaneously pulled them on. "Just try not to touch anything, yeah?"

Harry nodded and his his hands in his coat pockets. Frankly he was surprised that Lestrade had let him in. Did his uncle Mycroft really have that much power?

"The husband is in the kitchen - if you want to speak to him...?" Lestrade trailed off, addressing both Sherlock and John. The men shared a look and seemed to communicate with just that single glance (as they often did), because almost instantly after they had finished their 'conversation' Sherlock dashed through the archway to the kitchen.

Harry trailed behind them, eyes wide and inquisitive. He saw a policeman in the corner shoot him an odd look but Lestrade silenced him with a glare of his own. The kitchen was clean - almost clinically clean; much like what the Dursley's kitchen had looked like. Harry gave a shudder at the terrible memories jumping to the forefront of his mind and tried to steel himself. He squared his shoulders - he was ten now. He had two digits in the number of years he had been alive. He could be brave now - he wasn't a coward anymore.

A man was leaning against the kitchen-counter, posture tense - as if he was very nervous about something. He was quite tall, tall enough to be an American football player - and quite muscular. He was fidgeting with his hands, and as he suddenly placed his hands on the kitchen counter (probably after seeing the other people enter his kitchen) Harry noticed the sunlight streaming through the window catch something shiny on his ring finger. He was the husband, then.

"Where were you three nights ago at exactly nineteen-oh-seven?" Sherlock said, looming forward, his trench-coat billowing behind him like a cloak. Harry let out a small giggle - sometimes his father looked like a dark, evil wizard - but really, he was a small little teddy (just like the teddy up in his room which he had called Moony!) who occasionally wanted milk. John sent him a knowing, sideways glance.

The man let out an indignant snort and straightened himself, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Detective?!" He exclaimed, eyes meeting Lestrade's over Sherlock's shoulder. "Who is this man? Haven't you interrogated me enough?!"

Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he'd been through this routine several times already. "Please answer the question, Mr Brackenstall."***1(A/N)**

Brackenstall rolled his eyes, but turned his gaze to Sherlock. "I was on a business trip." He stated through clenched teeth.

Sherlock let out a snort. "'Business trip' is essentially a synonym for 'affair'." He said with a small smile of satisfaction upon his face. Harry stared at the exchange with wide eyes, intent on memorising everything his father did. The small silence was interrupted by a ringing phone - and all eyes swept to John, who had jumped up in surprise.

John had recently bought a 'mobile phone' to make his cases with Sherlock easier than usual - obviously he still wasn't used to the loud ring. He gingerly muttered a 'sorry', reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a large, black, electrical device.

Harry looked at it with unease, electrical things tended not to work so well around him, Sherlock speculated that it was probably due to Harry's 'powers', so to speak. Sherlock had experimented with Harry's power and had concluded that every time Harry did something, his body created a sort of electro-magnetic pulse. Science had, unfortunately, not evolved enough to allow them to delve deeper into the origins of Harry's powers.

John pressed a button on the phone and pressed it against his ear. His eyes widened and a gasp left his mouth. Then the erratic breathing started and he turned his wild, wide eyes at the group.

"Mary! She's in labour!" He exclaimed with mixture of happiness, worry and excitement. Lestrade's face broke out in a smile and he clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "Well... What are you doing here! Go to the hospital!"

John grinned at all of them, happier than Harry had ever seen him. Sherlock rolled his eyes when John turned to him, his gaze asking the detective whether he'd be alright for a few hours.

"I _did _work as a detective without you before you joined me." He said snarkily. But then his face softened and he smiled/smirked. "Go on, don't want to keep that baby. Say hi to Mary."

Harry had only met Mary a handful of times, usually when she came to pick up John after he'd been staying at Baker Street for a few days. She'd had dinner with them once. Last time they'd seen each other, her belly had been quite large.

Watson shakily ruffled Harry's hair, "Later's kiddo." He then bolted out the door, looking like a possessed man. Harry let out a chuckle - his 'uncle' John was only ever so excitable whenever he talked about his family.

Sherlock turned serious the moment John left, and turned his head back to the husband who was staring at the group with bewilderment. His eyes were flickering about, stopping on Harry more often than they did on other people.

"Why's the kid here? Isn't he a bit young for a detective?" He snarled through narrowed eyes. Harry stared defiantly back. The man's stance was slightly aggressive and his arms were twitching slightly as if he really wanted to hit something - probably because of all of the stress he'd been put under in the past few hours, after he'd been informed that his wife was missing. Worry and anger were etched into his face, and Harry noted briefly that that 'worry' looked like 'egoistic worry' and not 'worry for a loved one'.

Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. Why would he be worried about himself while his wife was missing. Did she hold some incriminating information about him?

Lestrade held up a hand, trying to placate him. "Now, please answer Mr Homes' question. Were you having an affair?"

"Now see here, what does that have to do with anything?!" The man exclaimed, his face twisting into that of annoyance. Harry concluded that this was perhaps one of the most rude people he had ever met - not that he had met that many... people that was. Then again, a large part of them had been mean or pitying towards him.

"Anything is relevant to this investigation. For all we know, this could be a homocide. There were signs of violence found in your house - forensics have confirmed that the blood found is your wife's. We don't know whether your wife is dead, or whether she has been kidnapped." Lestrade explained calmly, but Harry noted that his voice had risen a notch - apparently he was slowly getting irritated too. "Now, where were you the last three days. We need exact locations, and alibis."

"Are you accusing me of murdering my wife?!" Brackenstall cried in outrage. Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting out a snort.

"Did you murder her? Or were you out gallivanting with your girlfriend? The Bible sees both as sins. The difference between them is that one crime gives you a permanent, cosy home." Sherlock said without any emotion whatsoever. Then he tilted his head slightly, "Well, that and steel bars on your front door."

Harry giggled inwardly as the Brackenstall's face twisted into indecision. Then he sighed, and his shoulders slumped forward.

"Yeah, I was having an affair. I was with her the whole week." His mouth moved mechanically, as if it took him a lot of effort to say that. Lestrade clicked his pen and wrote something on his notebook.

"Will she be able to confirm that?"

Harry waited only to hear the confirmation and the contact details - after that he slowly pulled away from the small impromptu interrogation, and walked back into the hall, his leather shoes making little to no noise.

The officer who had watched them come in looked distrustfully at him. Harry turned his back at him, and confidently walked down the hall and then up the stairs. Hopefully, he looked ordinary enough that the policeman would later forget him.

Harry slowly spun on the spot taking the house in. The grand staircase, which he had just reached the top of, was large and looked like simply making the railings would already cost a fortune. The floor on the first floor (on which Harry now found himself) was tiled like a checkerboard and as he looked down at it, he could see his own large eyes (hidden behind large round glasses) reflected back at him.

Shrugging at his reflection, he continued walking - until he reached the first open door. He nudged it with his foot to make the gap larger and noted that the police had already investigated that particular room. There were small yellow signs with 'evidence' written on them placed around the room - which was in fact, a bedroom.

Lestrade had mentioned that there was evidence of a struggle and now staring at the scene before him, Harry noted that the 'struggle' had probably occurred in that room. Clothes were strewn on the floor, the blood soaked bed covers had been thrown upon the ground and had effectively died the carpet. Harry forced his eyes to turn away from that, and continued looking around the room. There was a wrinkled bill laying on the floor next to the door - as if someone had been trying to hide a large amount of things away, but had accidentally let that fall.

Harry tilted his head slightly and made the paper levitate slightly so that he could read it, and so that he didn't leave finger-prints on it. He tried to read what it was about, but the words were to complicated. He _did _however understand the words 'electricity and bill'. He let it fall again and wiped off the slight perspiration on his forehead. His powers were sometimes a little hard to use.

There was something odd about the scene - it seemed natural, yet at the same time not. There were less clothes on the floor than than fit into the cupboards and Harry supposed that with a house like that, the owners would have more than enough money to pay for garment-filled cupboards. There were more male garments strewn around. Either this woman used generally the same clothes, or half of it was gone.

The chaotic mess was somehow... _not _chaotic - as if someone had staged the struggle.

...The wife? Had the wife staged it all? Harry scratched the back of his head, deep in thought. What would have been her motive?

"Hmm... what have you deduced so far?" Sherlock's deep bass cut through his thoughts like a knife through butter, surprising Harry. He yelped and spun to face his father who's eyes were roaming the scene. They finally settled on Harry's.

Harry stared back, unsure what to say, but Sherlock gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile.

"Uhm... Er... Well, there's more-"

"There _are _more," Sherlock gently corrected. Harry scratched the back of his head again, suddenly aware of the small blush that dusted his cheeks.

"_There are more _male than female clothes on the floor - which I suppose is odd. Aunt Petunia had more clothes than Vernon - I had to iron them." A brief spike of anger shot through Sherlock's eyes, but disappeared almost instantly as the man hid his emotions behind a mask of slight indifference. "Also," Harry continued, "There are less clothes on the floor than in the cupboards - much less, as if half at least has been taken away. Um... I think that the wife - the biochemist - decided to leave her husband and staged her disappearance."

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Very good, Harry. You are correct. While walking up here, I noticed that several objects had been removed from tables, walls, etcetera. This room only confirms my suspicions, our dear Jane Ashleys-Brackenstall, by her own volition decided to leave her husband, for reasons yet unknown. I suspect however that he has been... ah... abusing his wife." He gestured at outside of the door - in particular to four locks attached to it. Obviously someone wanted to keep someone else locked in a room.

Harry lowered his gaze as Sherlock's own pierced him. It was a sensitive topic, one which both of them disliked talking about.

"You have also, undoubtedly noticed the sweet smell surrounding the ground floor near the kitchen." Harry nodded once as Sherlock gently took hold of his shoulder and gently guided him to the stairs. "There is a hidden room near the kitchen."

Harry's eyes widened - how had his father deduced that?

Sherlock smirked seeing his bewilderment. "Secret compartments often cause small, sloping angles towards the end of the room to which they are attached. This happens because of the steel clamps attached to the floor, wall and ceiling. I dropped a marble, and watched it roll to the wall at the back of the kitchen. Lestrade and Donovan are, as we speak, working on finding the door to the 'secret room'."

They had by now, arrived at the kitchen door, which now had a new sticker on it - 'investigation in progress. No entrance below clearance level three'. Sherlock seemed to have no regard for the warning on the notice, because he turned the door knob and entered the room.

Harry tailed behind him, eyes examining the kitchen - searching for the hidden room. Stepping aside - so as to be able to see what Sherlock was seeing - Harry was surprised to see that the wall (which had looked quite steady and solid before) now was a panel which was laying on the kitchen-counter.

He sniffed the air, and noted that the moist, sweet smell had gotten stronger - was it coming from the room?

He followed Sherlock through the now open door and... Harry's eyes fell upon a curious sight. Rows of plants were lined up horizontally, and every few metres, a lamp had been set up; letting out almost abnormally bright light. Harry tilted his head to the right. Why and for what would a person grow plants in their home? And why in secret?

Glancing around, he noticed the husband staring at everything with shock, as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. Lestrade was writing in his notebook, expression grim. Donovan had apparently come in after Sherlock and Harry had left and was staring at everything critically.

"She was working for a cartel!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, as he moved to the centre of the room and spun on his heel. He clapped his hands together.

"So she was murdered by the cartel?" Donovan asked dubiously. Harry eyed the pants around him, why would a cartel want plants?

"No, no, no! Cannabis is very hard to take care off! One has to water it continuously and, as one can see here, keep it in constant light." He paused and glanced over at Harry as if expecting him to deduce something from that information.

All eyes turned to him and Harry desperately tried to think of anything to deduce. Sherlock had said cannabis, hadn't he? Vernon had continuously complained about 'teenagers these days' and how the only thing they did nowadays, was take drugs. Cannabis was a drug - why else would someone grow so many plants (in secret) if it wasn't for industrial drug use?

Harry's mind raced, putting the puzzle together. Sherlock had said earlier that the woman was a biochemist... what if... _what if _she had been so good at her work that she had been recruited by a cartel to grow cannabis?

"She was recruited by a cartel to grow cannabis," Harry said slowly, and Sherlock nodded enthusiastically - seemingly happy that someone was following his thought process. "But the plants around us are pretty dry. If the cartel had killed her, they would have sent someone to take care of their precious plants."

"Exactly!" Sherlock cried, clasping his hands together again.

Donovan removed the tip of her pen (which she had been chewing) from her mouth and frowned at both of them. "So you're saying that we know that the cartel didn't kill her cause the plants are dry?" Harry nodded slowly - as ludicrous as it sounded... it actually made sense.

"These two plants, however, are quite the little beautiful things," Sherlock said, rushing towards the last row, and leaning down to inspect two plants which looked almost exactly like a cannabis plant... yet they did not.

Sherlock hovered over them, eyes bright. The whole entourage moved to stand around the two plants. Lestrade exchanged a glance with Donovan - obviously they thought that the two plants looked the same as every other cannabis pant in the room.

"These two... are Kapnou Spania tobacco plants - one of the rarest plants in the world. There are only about twenty or so in the whole world. About a year ago - one of them was stolen!" Sherlock breathed out, eyes wide. Harry suddenly remembered his father's obsession with the '243' types of tobacco ash. John kept teasing him by saying '240'. ***2(A/N)**

No wonder he had recognised a supposedly rare plant.

The question however was, how had this woman acquired one of these plants - never mind two of them? Harry glanced at Brackenstall and was surprised to find a mixture between jealousy and greed present on his face.

"And these two are complete and utter copies of one another." Sherlock said with amazement. "This technology shouldn't exist yet. This is... a genetically cloned plant!"

Harry stared at the plant... well... he supposed they _did _look somewhat similar.

"Oh... the money one could make with that!" exclaimed Brackenstall suddenly. Sherlock spun, and faced him.

"Precisely - your wife is going to sell these two plants so that she has enough money to run away from you and your abusive behaviour."

"Now see here! Who are you calling abusive!?" The man said aggressively. He separated his feet, putting himself in a more steady position - like a boxer would. Harry winced. If Sherlock wound him up anymore, the detective would end up getting punched.

Sherlock did. Unfortunately.

He straightened - to an impressive hight (but was still smaller than Brackenstall), and said: "I am calling you abusive. Your aggressive behaviour, and evidence we," he gestured to himself and Harry, "Found upstairs proves that-"

Sherlock never got to finish his sentence, because in that instant, the man punched him squarely in the nose. Sherlock stumbled back, clutching his nose, and making low 'owowow' sounds. Harry would have laughed at the sight if he didn't know how much it hurt. He'd been beaten up by Dudley numerous times, he knew what it felt like.

"I think that counts as assault!" Sherlock exclaimed, clutching his nose as a gentle trickle of blood escaped through his fingers.

...

They had returned to the flat after that - the glares they had received from policemen for leaving blood in the middle of a crime-scene had been a little... aggressive and Harry had found himself wondering whether Sherlock would get punched again.

Sherlock had then (with tissues stuck in both nostrils) devised a plan on how to find the woman. Apparently, he had noticed piles upon piles of newspapers from Standard ***3(A/N) **Sherlock had, upon occasion read that newspaper too - according to him, it was excellent if one wished to see what 'the ducks' (aka most of Britain's moronic population) thought of Margaret Thatcher and the election which was going to take place that year.

Sherlock had bet with John that John Major would become the next Prime Minister. ***4(A/N)**

The consulting detective had then noted that the most efficient way to find the woman, was to find out where she was going to sell her plants in order to earn her money. Of course, once he found her, he would have to call the police, to have her arrested. After all, she _had _stolen the plant in the first place in order to clone it.

Sherlock had then, on their way back home, bought the newest edition of the _Standard, _to find an encoded advertisement regarding the plant.

He had quickly found it, and had then given the newspaper to Harry to find it, while the consulting detective went to meet Jane Ashleys-Brackenstall (after he had contacted her, of course). He had stated that Harry had to stay home - meeting a criminal was apparently (in Sherlock's mind) more dangerous than going to a crime-scene.

Harry, had, after an hour of searching, finally settled on one advertisement. It stated:

The Kapnou Hotel

Find the ideal place to rest and relax. Tell me

your dreams and we will make them come

true. Two days in our care will work wonders.

Mr and Mrs Crammond, the proprietors, are

committed to satisfying your every whim.

**Locate us near Kirkaldy Town, in Fife. **

After some time, Harry had cracked the code. Obviously, the 'Kapnou Hotel' was a reference to the name of the plant. At first he had tired the first letter or word of every line, then he had tried that backwards. After several more attempts at cracking it, Harry had finally had an idea.

If one took the first word of the first sentence, the second word of the second sentence, third word of the third sentence, and so on, one eventually got the proper message: _Find me in Cramond Town. _

What Harry had needed an hour and a half to understand, Sherlock had done in mere minutes... His father's genius never seized to amaze him.

Sherlock came back late - the sun had disappeared over the horizon, and the stars had replaced it - not that Harry could see any... not in London anyway. London was too cloudy for that.

When he came back, Harry had already curled up on the sofa, half-asleep. The newspaper was laying on the coffee table, the solution for the code written at the bottom of the ads page. Sherlock chuckled in approval when he saw the solved puzzle and slumped down next to Harry. Sleepily, Harry cuddled up next to his father.

"Thanks dad. Best birthday evaa'" Harry murmured into his shoulder, slowly slipping into the land of Hypnos.

Sherlock remained awake, staring down at his miracle, eyes prickling with tears and emotion as he heard his _son _call him 'dad'.

* * *

**How did you like this chapter? Do you like Sherlock's/Harry's relationship? They're finally becoming more like father/son... Did you catch any accidental references? I'm thinking of writing a Harry-is-Loki's-son story... what do you think?**

**Ok, I know harry was supposed to meet the grandparents in this chapter... but tbh, this chapter ended up being 4k words... So. _Harry will definitively meet his grandparents in chapter 9. I promise. Seriously, this time this is serious. _**

**Finally finished this chapter. This was horrible to write... Basically I had to create a case first... Huh... that was hard. **

***1(A/N): Brackenstall - the name of a victim in the Sherlock Holmes books. **

***2(A/N): The Kapnou Spania tobacco plant doesn't actually exist. I made it up. It essentially means 'rare tobacco'. Original right. **

***3(A/N): Not-so-popular newspaper in England. Sherlock Holmes (in the books) occasionally read it. **

***4(A/N): Margaret Thatcher was in office until 1990, then John Major was elected - he became the next PM. **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Guest 1: OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH!**

**Literature girl: hmm... Lestrade as a babysitter... that's a pretty good idea XD Yup, Sherlock is slowly getting better at being a parent. Thanks for the review!**

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	10. Chapter 9

_"All emotions and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. (...) It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel. And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."_

~ Sherlock Holmes, His Last Vow (Series 3, episode 2)

...

Making tea was a surprisingly therapeutic exercise, Harry noted as he threw a tea bag into the bin. He looped a finger through the small handle and brought the warm beverage to his lips. As he tipped the warm liquid into his mouth, he let out a slight whine of pain - warm was an understatement, this was _scalding._

He quickly set the tea-cup back onto the dish, and turned his attention to the living room - in particular to Sherlock.

The man in question was running around the flat, grabbing seemingly random objects and placing them in a bag half full with his own garments. Harry had already packed his own bag - it wasn't like he'd had a lot to pack anyway. After all, they _were _only taking a three day trip.

Sherlock on the other hand, seemed to be packing for any situation. Harry knew his father was very... picky about the clothes he wore, but when Harry saw him comparing two purple shirts (which to Harry looked identical) murmuring about which one was better, Harry realised that this was going beyond picky.

Staring at his father, Harry was amused to see Sherlock tenderly watering the tobacco plant. He had brought it home after that first case with Harry and had proclaimed that his theft of the plant had been successful. A few days later Lestrade had come by to ask Sherlock where the tobacco plant was. According to him, Jane Ashleys-Brackenstall had been arrested and when they had searched her, and the hotel she had been staying at, they had found no traces of the tobacco plants which she had cloned. Sherlock had innocently told him that he didn't know where they were, while making Harry hide said plants in his room.

Harry raised the cup back to his lips, then stopped, and put the cup back on it's dish. He would wait a few minutes 'till it cooled down a little.

"Yoo-hoo!" Cried Mrs Hudson as she rushed into the flat, a tray full of scones in her hands. She stopped suddenly upon seeing a packed bag resting on the sofa and another unpacked bag, laying on the cluttered table. Confusion graced her countenance.

"Going to your parents, are you?" She asked, surprised (Sherlock had been, after all, promising to take Harry to meet his grandparents for more than a month. Everyone had started doubting his promise). The consulting detective barely spared her a glance.

"_Obviously_." Sherlock said with that typical 'why-am-I-wasting-my-time-with-these-unintelligible-ducks-voice'.

Mrs Hudson shot him a disapproving stare which stated 'I'm-telling-your-mother', and set the tray on the kitchen table. Then noticing Harry in the strangely experiment-free room, she smiled warmly at him.

"How's my favourite little Holmes boy doing?" She said offering him a scone. Harry gratefully took one and dunked it into his tea. Sherlock - who was still stuffing shirts into a bag - snorted.

"Exceptionally. And you Mrs Hudson?" Harry said politely, countenance completely innocent and charismatic. Mrs Hudson ruffled his hair. "Aren't you the perfect gentleman."

She pulled him into a hug. Behind Mrs Hudson Harry could see Sherlock rolling his eyes as he looked at them. Harry smirked.

...

Sherlock had sent him through an intricate scavenger hunt through the entire city. A scavenger hunt which led to Victoria Station. Before they had left Baker Street, Sherlock had informed him that as part of his 'training' so to speak, Harry would have to search for people and things in London. At every checkpoint, Harry would have to ask a person for the next clue.

The trick was, that every person would tell him a clue about the next shop, person, or thing Harry had to find. And the next checkpoint would reveal the next clue - and so on. Sherlock had told him that his final destination would be a station in London - the station from which they would depart.

Of course, this meant that Harry was under a time constraint.

But knowing Sherlock, an exercise such as this would require deduction - not skills for a scavenger hunt.

So instead of going on a mad chase for clues, Harry tried to deduce the station which they would be departing from. He knew that the largest train stations were King's Cross, Waterloo, Paddington and Victoria Station. These were also some of the few train stations which had trains which undertook 'city-centre-to-city-centre' journeys.

Sherlock had stated that they would be travelling to the north - and Harry knew from his short conversations with Sherlock that his parents lived in the outskirts of a large city.

A quick consultation with a map had revealed that one of the largest cities up north was Newcastle. Hoping that he was right, Harry had pick-pocketed a foreign business man, and had thus acquired a schedule for trains leaving and arriving at London.

Biting his lip, Harry had been forced to decide between King's Cross and Victoria - both which had trains that would depart at exactly the same time, and would arrive at Newcastle upon Tyne three hours later.

He had eventually decided upon Victoria Station as it was closer to Baker Street and knowing Sherlock (who had an obsession with taking short-cuts) he had chosen it.

So Harry had taken the tube to Victoria Station (he had followed a rambunctious, and chaotic family and had thus passed ticket-control unnoticed), and was now standing in the middle of Victoria Station looking around warily.

There was no sign of Sherlock - had he made a mistake? Was Sherlock waiting for him in another station? Perhaps his grandparents didn't live in Newcastle... Maybe... he was wrong?

All his worries melted away as a familiar, gloved hand fell upon his shoulder - Harry spun and was delighted to see that it was Sherlock. He was smiling smugly, as if he was responsible for Harry's intelligence and deductions.

"Well done, Harry." He said. "You disregarded my instructions and went ahead and deduced independently. I do not tolerate cow-mentality_and_ utter subordination. You have to be able to think for yourself." He paused for a moment and then said, in a slightly stricter tone, "That of course, doesn't mean that you are allowed to ignore my instructions."

Harry grinned innocently back at him, "Of course, father!" The word tasted odd - he had been calling his father, 'father' more and more in the last few weeks, but it was still odd. After ten years or so, of not having anyone in his 'family' to call familiarly, it was odd to suddenly start calling one of them... 'father'.

His father eyed him warily but continued, "But pray tell, Harry, how did you know where to come?"

Harry recounted his deductions and winced when he saw a small frown upon his father's face. "Your deductions," He started, "Appear, to the naked eye, to be faultless. However," He gently pushed Harry forwards to a blue train and they started walking towards it, "They are riddled with faults."

Sherlock pressed a button on the doors of the train and they swung open, both father and son entered the first class car. Harry and Sherlock made their way down the narrow hallway and entered the second last compartment - one of the only empty ones.

"You stated that there are four major stations in London which one can take a train at to leave London. I assume you read this in _A History of Stations: London Edition _***1**." At Harry's hesitant nod, he continued, "That book is, I'm afraid, the old edition. Six other stations have joined that list since the book's publication. This was your first mistake. It could have been any of the ten stations. Five other trains are departing for Newcastle today - all from three other stations; St Pancreas, Euston and Charing Cross."

Sherlock fixed Harry with a serious stare. "You guessed." He finally stated, voice heavy. Harry winced slightly - apparently that wasn't good. "I never guess. It is a shocking habit,—destructive to the logical faculty." He said. "Each deduction has to be backed up with undeniable proof. Remember, Harry, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth."***2**

Harry rolled his eyes at Sherlock's last statement - he said it so often that it had almost become a catchphrase.

The train had started moving already and Harry rushed to the window seat. Pressing his face to the window he stared out - it was after all, his first time on a train. Eyes wide he took it all in.

They were almost rolling out of the station and glancing back, Harry noticed a young man in an expensive suit running towards the train as if believing that he would be able to catch up with it. Harry giggled at his red face and then reclined back into his plushy seat. Sherlock was seated across from him and was staring at Harry with amusement.***3**

Harry shrugged and turned to stare out of the window, watching the landscape gradually change. He'd never been out of Surrey or London, it was odd to think that he was actually travelling to the north and was going to see more of England.

He was thrown from his trail of thought when a mother and her son entered the compartment, both looking slightly out of breath - the boy more so (had he just undertaken some form of sport). He stank of sweat, but was grinning triumphantly. Under an arm he held a large gym bag which was half open. Peeking inside, Harry spotted a few football jerseys... so footballer? The boy was still wearing his shorts, and attached to his feet were outdoor football shoes (which were covered with bits and pieces of grass).

He looked around Harry's age. His mother (for she was almost probably his mother) had dragged him into the compartment and was now pulling him down onto the seat, next to Harry. He shot Harry a naive, happy grin. The mother slowly caught back her breath.

"My God, I'm never sprinting like that again. You were quite slow towards the end," She teased, her voice loud as if she was used to having to shout over a large amount of people. Large family? She caught Sherlock's eye, but he just shot her a critical glare and continued inspecting her and her son.

The boy groaned, "Mu-uum, just _try _to remember who just played football for ninety minutes!"

Harry grinned inwardly - he was right - football!

"Now, now Dean, quiet down," She said shushing him. "I'm sure they also want their quiet."

The newly named Dean rolled his eyes and let himself slump in his seat, while hugging his sports bag. Harry's gaze met Sherlock's and he mouthed 'deduce'. Harry smirked back. They had recently started a new game where they tried to deduce things about people on the streets (apparently Sherlock already did this with his brother). Sherlock would always win, of course, but that didn't demotivate Harry. He knew deduction was a hard skill to learn - but it was worth it.

Mother and son got out in Doncaster, about an hour and a half into their journey. Sherlock instantly turned his grey eyes on Harry, eyebrow raised - demanding Harry to deliver his deductions.

"Uhm... Obviously, the boy's name is Dean Thomas - he wrote his name on his gym bag. The mother's name is Diane Johnson (which one could clearly see on her library ID when she opened her purse to give the ticket controller her ticket), which confused me initially." He paused, but continued at Sherlock's nod, "But then I realised that her son was a product of a previous marriage." Sherlock nodded in approval.

"Her second marriage is obviously happy - you may have noticed in that brief moment when she opened her purse, one could also see a pair of theatre tickets, a restaurant receipt and a picture of her husband."

Harry frowned, "She could be having an affair...?"

Sherlock shook his head, then reconsidered, then shook his head again, "No. Her wedding band is old, and she kept fingering it and smiling faintly. She could only be remembering her husband. Individuals who cheat on their partners often remove their rings out of guilt."

Harry conceded and lowered his head for a brief moment, remembering her other deductions. "The manner with which she spoke and moved implied that she is used to talking to a large group of people. Large family?"

"Is that a question or a statement?" Sherlock said, eyebrow raised and Harry blushed. The consulting detective didn't wait for an answer and continued, "You are, of course, correct. Our dear Dean, _is _part of a large family. He is most probably one of the elder siblings. His bag is relatively new - his mother seems like a practical woman, he would have gotten hand-me-downs if he had any elder siblings. This is slightly far-fetched, but could be true."

The game continued with them throwing deductions back and forth, each more in depth than the one previously. Harry actually surprised himself with being able to continue finding new deductions he had previously missed. Sherlock did, however, win in the end - just as he always did.

They arrived at the Newcastle railway station - a beautiful station built in a neoclassical style. It was smaller than Victoria Station, though.

Harry found himself staring around the city with amazement. He was still in England, but everything seemed so... _different. _The people around them spoke differently, behaved differently... everything was just... different.

Once Sherlock had retrieved their luggage from the luggage compartment, he had to drag Harry to the taxi parking spot, because he was still staring around with amazement and not really looking where he was walking.

"Never take the first or the second taxi." He stated, and Harry instantly shifted his attention back to his father. "One never knows whether to trust taxi's or not (a dark look crossed his face), it is in any case unrecommended to take the first two. A logical way for a kidnapper, assassin, etc., to kidnap, assassinate, etc. an individual is to employ both the first _and _second taxi's. Therefore, we shall be taking the third one." ***4**

Harry stared concernedly at the back of his father's head. He knew his father was paranoid - but _this _paranoid? Harry faintly remembered reading John's diary entries, and about one of the most recent 'big' cases. Apparently, some criminal mastermind called Moriarty had been involved. After that (John had written), Sherlock had become increasingly more paranoid about the safety of the people around him.

Shaking those thoughts out of his mind, Harry tried to concentrate on not being nervous about meeting his parents, which resulted in actually becoming more nervous.

He got into the taxi - after Sherlock had given the taxi driver an address and a critical stare. They drove in silence while Harry marvelled the beauty of the city.

The navigation system attached to the windshield indicated that there were only a few minutes left until they arrived, and Harry found his nerves getting the best of him. He exhaled shakily.

His father, who sat next to him, placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry raised his eyes to his father who's face was expressionless - just as it so often was.

...

They arrived at an elaborate gate which was easily twice as large as Sherlock. On either side of the gate, wrapped around two poles, were two rusty-looking snakes. In the middle of the gate, right were it was supposed to part to grant entry to the people who lived on the other side, was a crest with HUS written on it.

In the distance, Harry could see a large manor, made out of dark stone. Surely... this wasn't where Sherlock had grown up?

All of the taxi's occupants stared at the gates for a moment, mesmerised by their beauty. The taxi driver's whistle of amazement threw them all out of their thoughts and Sherlock coughed, before exiting the yellow car. Harry followed him, eyes still on the gate.

"Hus means," Sherlock started, "House. Or rather, it is Middle English for Holmes. Holmes is simply a variant of both names." His eyes were sharp as he said this. Harry stared at the gates in amazement - was his family _that _old?

"The Holmes family used to be influential, then we lost our power when one of our ancestors drank the family fortune away - he was an alcoholic. The only thing he left for us was the estate. He died before he could drink that away too." Sherlock said, pressing a hand against the gates and pushing. They opened with a loud tired creak and Harry and Sherlock walked through it.

"My parents have now chosen to retreat back into rural life-" They had reached a fork in the path, one which led to a cosy-looking cottage, and another to an imposing manor. "They currently live in the cottage. After all, the _are _only two people now."

Harry's eyes widened slightly in panic as they approached the cottage - what if his grandparents didn't like him? What if they hated him cause he was Sherlock's bastard son? What if-

"Sherlock!" Said a loud, but warm voice. Said voice came from a large woman standing in the doorway (which had just opened).

Harry examined her, eyes wide, realising this must be his grandmother. She was slightly chubby - as grandmothers often were and had a worn, but kind face. Wrinkles decorated her eyes; a product of a lot of smiling. Her eyes were the same christalline grey colour Sherlock's own eyes possessed, nevertheless, they did not hold that cold, sharp intelligence Sherlock's eyes usually held. Hers were brimming with mirth and warmth, something that made Harry almost instantly like her.

Harry stared wide-eyed from behind Sherlock as he watched him get enveloped in a hug - no one ever hugged Sherlock!

Sherlock stiffened slightly, but his mother ignored his body language and seemed to just tighten her hold on him. When they had separated, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Mummy," Sherlock started, voice a little unsteady and put a hand on Harry's shoulder as if to emotionally stabilise himself, "I would like to present you to someone - Mycroft has no doubt already told you all about him... This is my son - Harry."

Harry cracked a small, unsure smile, as he looked at his grandmother through his lashes. "Harry," Sherlock continued, "This is my mother, Violet Holmes - and your grandmother."

Harry wasn't prepared for the arms that suddenly enveloped him. He stood there stiffly for a moment or two - then his grandmother released him and let out a sigh.

"Like father, like son," she said, probably referring to his discomfort with human touch. The corners of her mouth turned upwards. "Welcome to the Holmes family, Harry."

...

The inside of the cottage looked, if possible, even more welcoming than the outside. The windows were open, creating a small, windy current which messed up Harry's already messed up hair. Sun shone through the windows, thus seemingly bathing the whole living room in a honey-coloured light.

The living room was large and airy, with several sofas and armchairs, a fire-place (which currently wasn't in use) and a coffee table with a few gin and whiskey bottles. The walls were decorated with bookshelves filled with academic looking books. Some of them looked so worn, and so old, Harry was afraid that they'd fall apart if he touched them.

Two men were occupying two of the armchairs one of which was facing them - he was obviously tall and thin. He had pointed features and a receding hair line. His eyes had instantly flown up to meet Harry and Sherlock as soon as they had walked into the room. Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement and folded his newspaper - then he stood up.

"Good afternoon, Harry, Sherlock." Mycroft nodded to each of them. Sherlock glared back.

"This is a family reunion, Mycroft, you have no right to be here." Sherlock said maliciously.

Mycroft sighed with exasperation, "My dear brother, as much as you might hate it, we are related and share the same surname-"

"Now, now boys!" Exclaimed a deep, masculine voice. Every head turned to the second man, who a few seconds ago, had been comfortably seated in his armchair, drinking a cup of tea.

Harry stared wide-eyed at the man - for he was imposing. His eyebrows were bushy and made him look serious and intimidating. His platinum coloured hair and wrinkles bespoke old age. His eyes were dark - the opposite of Sherlock's own eyes. His regal and elegant but haughty stance spoke of an aristocratic upbringing.

Yet, an aura of kindness surrounded him, and as he leaned down with an extended hand, a bright smile graced his face - accentuating the wrinkles around his eyes. After a few moments, Harry grasped the proffered hand.

"Welcome to the family, my dear chap." His voice was now warm - starkly contrasting the crisp way he had reprimanded his sons earlier on. "My name is Siger Holmes, you may call me Grandfather."

An awkward silence ensued, broken only by a purring cat (which was comfortably sitting on the windowsill).

"Right then," Mrs Holmes - his grandmother finally said, "Shall I put the kettle on?" Without waiting for an answer she shuffled into the kitchen, thus leaving three generations of the Holmes family together. The four Holmes males seated themselves around the unlit fireplace. Harry felt oddly out of place. His whole family had a sort of aristocratic, inborn grace and a way of arrogantly eyeing each other, assessing and calculating.

"Mycroft tells me you have been home-teaching the boy?" His grandfather finally said regally. Harry cocked his head slightly, while the older man _did _seem to want to connect with his grandchild, the shock of actually seeing him in the flesh had rendered him slightly speechless and tactless.

Harry felt Sherlock's gaze on him, but ignored that. Instead he was having a staring match with his uncle. Sparks of amusement and insecurity danced behind his eyes and Harry understood that the man wasn't used to dealing with children. Harry sighed inwardly, he supposed he had been quite a shock for the family... they all just needed to adjust... and well... they seemed nice enough (if a bit calculating and haughty).

"Yes, I have." Was the short reply. Mycroft ripped his gaze away and threw a glare at Sherlock.

"Obviously, father wants to know what you have been teaching him-" Before Mycroft could finish his statement with a scathing remark, he was stopped with a scathing, reprimanding glare from Harry's grandfather. Harry sincerely hoped in that moment, that he would never be on the receiving end of that stare.

Sherlock placed an arm around Harry's shoulders and pulled him closer to himself.

"Well, Harry is quite a smart young man. I decided that he would not need to attend school as he is far ahead of them anyway. I have been teaching him the art of deduction, the sciences, contemporary literature, mathematics and several languages."

It was then, at that moment that Harry's grandfather did something that seemed slightly uncharacteristic for him. Even during the short time Harry had known him (less than a quarter of an hour in fact), he had gathered that the man was proper and very eloquent.

The Holmes patriarch had thrown his head down and had groaned, burying his head in his hands. The other Holmes' stared down at him with different variations of shock. Mycroft was blinking in surprise, Sherlock had simply raised an eyebrow and Harry had cocked his head again, eyes wide.

His grandmother, who had just reentered the room carrying a tea-tray, was standing by the door, an amused, warm smile gracing her face, causing the dimples to come out prominently.

She walked carefully into the living room (so as not to spill the tea) and set the tray down. Once everyone (with the exception of Harry's grandfather) had a cup of tea, Mrs Holmes sat down next to her husband and placed a comforting hand on his back. Harry turned his bewildered stare at his father who had started chuckling silently.

"Why must you all be geniuses?" Said Harry's grandfather, straightening in his chair as he accepted a cup of tea from his wife. "It's ever so unfair. I feel so terribly outnumbered!" He exclaimed and then chuckled.

He threw Harry a wink and said boy cracked an unsure smile. Was this where Sherlock got his bipolarity?

"Everyone in the family has an IQ above 145, except my father of course." Sherlock explained silently to Harry while Mycroft engaged his mother in a conversation.

"So, my dear boy, I also heard from Mycroft that you enjoy reading." Siger Holmes said, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. Harry's eyes brightened as the topic of literature was brought up.

Almost instantly grandfather and grandchild commenced a lengthy discussion about the different books Harry had read lately.

.

A few hours later found Harry curled up next to his grandfather, listening to him as he read out a children's story called _'The Three Brothers'. _Apparently, the book had been sitting in a dusty bookshelf for years, untouched by several generations of the family. Siger Holmes had said that he himself wasn't quite sure how and when he had first seen it... at least that was what he had said. Harry wasn't sure he quite believed him.

"-And as for the third brother, Death searched him for many years, but was unable to find him, only when he attained a great age did the youngest brother, shed the cloak of invisibility and give it to his son. He then greeted Death as an old friend and went with him gladly, parting this life as equals..." Siger Holmes trailed off and smiled softly as the young boy curled up against his side.

The boy had fallen asleep somewhere at the end of the story - but only after he had forced Siger to re-read the story four times.

It was remarkable really, looking down at the boy now. He had read the reports Mcroft had sent to him. Reports Mycroft had somehow managed to get from child services. They proclaimed Harry had been an abused child (while living with his maternal aunt) and while Siger could still see evidence of such treatment, he noted that the boy seemed much looser and trusting. Evidently Sherlock wasn't as bad a father as Mycroft had depicted him being.

Siger smiled slightly down at the boy and wondered briefly whether Harry would turn out being a wizard. So far, he hadn't seen any magical signs, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. After all, his own brother, Sherrinford had shown no signs whatsoever of being magical, but had then ended up becoming a wizard anyway.

Siger sighed as he remembered that particular part of his childhood. His parents had almost disowned him when they had found out that Siger was simply a squib. Instead, Siger had been sent to the best British _muggle _boarding school and had finished school like any other muggle. By the time he'd become of age, he had been fully integrated into muggle society.

The last time he had heard anything from the Wizarding World was when his parents and brother (and his family) had all been killed by Death-Eaters during a raid in Diagon Alley. He had then received a consolation and compensation letter from Gringotts Bank. In the envelope, he had also found the magical signet ring of the Holmes family, but hadn't been allowed to become the magical lord of the House of Holmes as he wasn't a wizard.

But if Harry ended up being a wizard... that title would be transferred to him.

Smiling down at the little boy curled at his side, Siger brushed a lock of hair from the boy's forehead. As he did so, he revealed a horrible scar, shaped like like rune of sowilo - aka a lightning bolt. Tracing the scar with his fingers, he frowned slightly. How had Harry received such a scar? From the Dursleys?

Gently moving a few locks of hair back onto his forehead, to cover the scar, Siger leaned back. The scar troubled him, even with his small amount of magic, he could sense the remnants of Dark Magic left behind, within the scar. There was also something nagging at him, as if there he was supposed to know the meaning of the scar, but had forgotten.

Taking another deep breath, he tried to rid his mind of dark thoughts about dark magic and focused on his gandson's face. Then he smiled... after all, he _had _always wanted a grandson.

* * *

**Ok, longer chapter this time (compensation for being away for such a long time) I had a lot of exams and not much inspiration. But I'll be continuing writing this story now. I hoped you enjoyed the chapter. hehehe... I really enjoyed writing the twist... did you like it?**

***1. I actually have that book on train stations in London. Yeah. I'm a nerd. **

***2. Quote by Sherlock Holmes (from the books)**

***3. This is a small reference towards the books. There is a scene in one book, in which Moriarty tries to catch up with a train. **

***4. The taxi thing is also from the books.**

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Guest: Hahah thank you! I will be writing that story soon - in fact, I already have about 1k words**

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**KK: Thank you very much! Deductions are surprisingly hard to write... And yes, Harry's thought process is different to Sherlock's.**

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Wow! Thank you all for reviewing. You guys always blow me away with your reviews! Thank you soooo much! (i hope my small absence hasn't steered you away from my story xD)


	11. Chapter 10

ATTENTION: TIME SKIP: HARRY HAS JUST TURNED 11 YEARS OLD!

and omg thank you so much for your reviews! 500 reviews! *o*

And DAAAAAAMMMMNNNNN I'm starting 11th grade tomorrow. *_*

* * *

**221B BAKER STREET - AUGUST 1991. _Harry is now eleven._**

Harry watched as the yoyo hovered in the air, then fell, and started drawing an eight in the air. John - who was typing something in his blog - kept giving him odd looks. Harry kept grinning back. Turning his stare back at the yoyo, Harry realised the reason behind John's actions.

A floating yoyo wasn't really natural and it _did_ look a little odd. After all, it was defying the rules of nature. Science allowed gravity or the force of a throw to spin the yo-yo and unwind the string, then the yo-yo to winded itself back to one's hand, exploiting its spin (and the associated rational energy). But Harry's powers were doing the opposite. They were defying gravity.

"What are you blogging about?" Harry asked suddenly. He had read all of his uncles blog entries and had to admit that he had a talent… although the logical parts - the deductions - were sometimes left out. John seemed to like to romanticise everything.

"My last case with Sherlock." He glanced at Harry, smiling slightly. "I didn't write anything about you - well… you know how Sherlock is…"

The Consulting Detective had forbidden John from publishing _anything_ about Harry in the blog. Apparently that attracted unwanted attention.

Harry chuckled and drew a lightning bolt in the air with his yoyo.

"Yeah, he's a little protective."

John shot him an incredulous stare. "A _little_." He said bluntly. Harry laughed again. And nodded.

"Yeah, a little," he replied in a completely serious tone, albeit a little mocking. Then he glanced at his watch - a watch that his father had gifted him for his eleventh birthday.

"Do you have any idea when he'll come?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock said he had an errand to run. He probably wanted to solve a murder case."

Harry sighed. Even after a year of being under Sherlock Holmes' guardianship, the man still didn't allow him to solve murder cases. He was supposedly protecting Harry's 'innocence' for as long as possible. Harry's innocence had, however, disappeared within the first few years of living with the Dursleys.

"I hope he gets milk."

John chuckled. Then pressed a button on his keyboard and shut the laptop.

"Mary's coming over later. She's bringing Emily over… I think we should clean up the flat a little," John said slowly, referring to the countless of books that littered the floor, desks, armchairs and puffs. Even the kitchen was a mixture of chemicals, and books about chemistry. Harry bit his lip sheepishly.

"Uh, my apologies." He paused and glanced around the flat. "We should make it safe for Emily."

Emily was John and Mary's first child. She had turned a year old recently and had found out that running around 221B garnered a lot of attention from the adults. Probably because there were so many dangerous objects strewn around the flat.

They set about cleaning the flat - which for Harry wasn't really much of a problem. He had by know mastered levitation and could easily move a large number of books with just twitching his finger.

After a while of nice, companionable silence, John picked up a book and his eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

He cleared his throat, "_The Charm of the Hedgehog_?" He read aloud chuckling appreciatively. He opened a page which was bookmarked and started reading.

"Some people consider hedgehogs useful pets because they prey on many common garden pests. While on the hunt, they rely upon their senses of hearing and smell because their eyesight is weak…" John trailed off, still chuckling, but with bemusement flashing in his eyes.

"Why… do you need a book like this?" He said, closing it and placing it upon another stack of books about animals. Harry blushed.

"I was trying to find the right pet. Hedgehogs seem cute."

John threw his hands up in mock exasperation. However, amusement danced in his eyes.

"What about Clyde?" He was referring to the turtle he had bought Harry for his tenth birthday. Harry turned away sadly.

"Uh, father overdosed him with _mirtazapine_ and _trazodone_ \- both antidepressants."

John stared. Harry shrugged again. "Clyde's in a coma."

"I'm not a vet… but do you want me to look him over?" John asked slowly, anger (directed at Sherlock) now lacing every word.

"No, thank you. I am already treating him with self-developed drugs. He'll be better in a few weeks."

John chuckled and shook his head. "I guess we'll have another chemist in the family."

Before Harry could formulate an answer, there was a loud screech and a large, furry ball flew into the living room. A few piles of case-files with piles papers which had been laying open were thrown into the air and John groaned. He had spent a large part of that Sunday morning organising everything.

Harry, however couldn't care less about that at that moment. Instead, he watched as that bundle of fur glided around the room in a large circle and then settled onto a large, high-winged armchair. Harry then realised that it was an owl. It's beak was light and had a slight yellow tingle to it. It was light brown-reddish colour and its feathers seemed well-groomed as if it belong to someone who took great care of it. And attached to one of its claws, was a letter.

Harry continued staring.

"John. Please tell me you also see an owl?"

The other man had come to stand next to Harry and they were now both staring at the owl.

"You have got to be kidding me." John said slowly. "Is it carrying a letter?"

Harry turned his attention back at the claw with the letter attached to it.

"Why yes! You're right… This is a really odd way to send a letter. Who would take so much time to train an owl to send a letter? And how would they train it to know where to come? And at what time-"

"Harry, just take the letter."

Harry blushed again and extended his hand to take the letter, but was stopped by John.

"Wait no. Sorry. But the owl might have some sort of bird virus. Here, I'll take it."

Harry scowled lightly. The adults in his life were sometimes obsessively protective about him.

John slowly took the letter from the owl so as not to anger it. He seemed to think the owl would jump him - like a rabid lion. "Huh. It's addressed to you." he said with raised eyebrows.

Harry frowned and took the letter from him, taking care as how to handle it. His father had taught him about poisons and powders which were sometimes delivered via letters and he had then shown him how to handle such a letter.

"Hmm.. That's odd."

"What's odd?" John asked. Harry turned the envelope around.

"It says, to Mr Harry Potter, The Living Room, 221B Baker Street, London."

John frowned. "The living room…? How would they - whoever sent this letter - know that you're in the living room?"

"Precisely my thoughts." Harry muttered and looked out the window quickly. "They must be able to somehow see us from the street or from the houses across the road. Hmm… Or they have cameras in here of which we are unaware of. Nevertheless, the owl would have had to be sent from somewhere close from here…" Harry trailed off as he turned the letter over again and saw the crest.

"Have you seen this crest before?" He questioned John. There were four animals depicted within the crest. A lion, a snake, a badger and an eagle. Curiously, the snake was drawn in the same position as the Holmes family crest.

"Hogwarts." John murmured, reading the banner above the crest. "What's that?"

Harry shrugged and read what seemed to be the motto of the school.

"_Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_," Harry murmured silently, "Never tickle a sleeping dragon? Well that's odd…"

John bit his lip. "This could be a prank from Justin." He was referring to a friend Harry had managed to make at school. Justin Finch-Fletchley was a nice chap if a little arrogant and snobbish. He loved pranking fellow students and teachers. He, like Harry had been forced to attend school by their uncles.

"No, no." Harry said slowly, shaking his head, "He wouldn't spend so much time on training an owl for a prank like this…"

"So then… who sent it?" John asked. Harry shrugged again.

"Hmm…" He weighed the envelope in his hand, "Odd. This is made out of parchment. High-end parchment. The sort of parchment used in the early 19th century. This one is very high-end…" He paused for a moment, "I assume the one who sent this belongs to the upper class." He examined the writing. "Now, John are you familiar with the study of graphology?"

John shook his head but chuckled.

"You're like your father when you do that."

Harry ignored him and pressed on, "The psychological analysis of handwriting. The upward strokes on the 'P', 'L' and 'T', indicate high intelligence and pride. While the flourishes on the lower zone denote courage-able nature. But if one observes the overall slant and the pressure of the writing there's a suggestion of acute subservience. To whom, I do not know."

John blinked. "Well yes, that is definitively like your father."

Harry rolled his eyes. "We are dealing with an old, prideful, brave woman - most likely at teacher or a doctor judging by the slightly messy handwriting."

There was a sudden clapping from the doorway, and John and Harry swivelled around to meet one Sherlock Holmes.

"Very well done, Harry. You have passed the most recent test."

Harry and John turned to each other and blinked, then turned to face Sherlock again.

"Wait… what? This was a test? With an owl - where do you get these ideas from, Sherlock?!" John exclaimed suddenly. Sherlock casually hung up his trench coat and removed his scarf.

"Ah, I did not sent the letter. I simply found the owl loitering in front of the house this morning and told it to come by later when I wasn't home - to deliver the letter to Harry and see what he made of it."

Harry chuckled appreciatively. So Sherlock had deduced everything about the letter already and had made sure that there was no danger, then had reattached the envelope to the owl and told it to come back later.

"You told an owl to _come by later_." John exclaimed incredulously. The owl, which had been resting on the armchair next to him nipped his ear indignantly.

"It understands me!" he exclaimed again. Sherlock pulled a 'duh' facial expression.

"Well of course, John! If not it wouldn't have come back again! Now Harry, open the letter. I admit, I am intrigued by it."

Harry hesitated for a moment, and sniffed it, but smelled no recognisable poison. Then gently, he pried the seal off the envelope and pulled out two sheets of heavy parchment. He read aloud:

"_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on the 1st of September. We await your owl by no later than the 10th of August._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress._

_P.S. If you so wish it, a member of our staff shall come by to take you to Diagon Alley, a wizarding precinct, to purchase your school supplies."_

He glanced upward to see that John was staring at him incredulously, Sherlock was looking at him very attentively. Harry glanced at the second page.

"The second page is a supply list… for… Hogwarts?"

Harry chuckled appreciatively, "Ahh… Justin has outdone himself now. This is really a perfect prank. Very convincing I must say," Harry said, more to himself than anyone else. John started laughing too. Sherlock remained oddly silent. He then collapsed elegantly into his usual armchair and steepled his fingers.

"Wait… you don't honestly believe this do you, Sherlock?" John asked slowly, waving a hand at the general direction of the letter. Harry turned to stare at his father - was he taking it seriously?

"On the contrary, John. It seems to me quite a likely possibility that this is… real." Sherlock seemed to hate his own final conclusion, because he stood up abruptly and marched into the kitchen. John followed him hesitantly. Harry remained staring at the owl who was haughtily staring after John and Sherlock.

"B-b-but how!? Magic. Sherlock! This is magic school! Magic doesn't exist!"

"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"

"Yes - but magic, Sherlock!"

Sherlock spun around, lips pursed.

"You have seen Harry's powers! You know what he can do! Do you not remember examining London for extreme discharges of Electromagnetism and finding whole areas soaked up in that energy?! There is a hidden community like Harry. I know there is!" Harry's father suddenly exclaimed quite loudly and Harry glanced out the window anxiously. Hopefully no one had noticed outside.

"I have had several theories over the past year, and this is the last one that has remained. However improbable, John, this must be the truth!"

Harry stared at the ping pong discussion between his father and surrogate uncle, eyes wide. Apparently Sherlock believed there were more like him… and to be honest, Harry had suspected the same for the past half a year.

John deflated suddenly and leaned against the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room.

"Now, Harry," Sherlock started, "I distinctly remember the letter saying to 'send them and owl'?"

Harry glanced back down at his letter and reread the small paragraph then glanced back up at the waiting owl. He nodded.

"Well then, my dear Harry as you have already probably deduced this owl is trained to remain here until you send a reply."

Harry nodded in acknowledgement at the hidden command and fetched a stray paper and an envelope. He wrote a quick reply and handed it awkwardly to the owl which stared at him for a moment, before grabbing the envelope in it's beak and the flying out the window.

.

Minerva McGonagall hated August. August was the busiest time of the year for her. As deputy headmistress she was required to send acceptance letters, arrange meetings with muggle-born and muggle-raised students and their families and convince them all that Hogwarts was a good school.

It was an exhausting task.

Not to mention, during the first few weeks of August, owls flooded her room. Raging from beautiful, black, groomed owls such as the Malfoy family owl, to weary, old, scrawny owls such as the Weasley family owl.

And now - for the first time in at least three weeks, Minerva's office was blissfuly empty and quiet. Almost as soon as she had thought that thought, there was a loud screeching sound and a tawny, Hogwarts owl pushed itself through the pigeon hole in her office.

The owl was clutching large, white, muggle envelope in its beak and frankly it looked exhausted. Minerva petted it's soft feathers sympathetically. It had probably taken two long trips in one day.

She took the envelope from its beak and allowed the owl to fly through the pigeon-hole and back to the owl-tower.

_To Minerva McGonagall, _the letter read_,_

_My name is Harry Potter, and I recently received a letter of acceptance from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry of which you are obviously the Headmistress._

_Needless to say, that letter was quite a shock. I have been able to do magic for several years now, but I wasn't aware that there was - is a magical community. I had suspicions of course, but there was no ultimate proof to back my theory._

_It would be splendid if a member of your staff were able visit me and my father and explain the matter for me._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Harry Potter._

Minerva reread the letter several times, eyes widening more and more every time she read it again. All the acceptance letters were automatic. The only thing that was ever changed in every letter was the name at the top of the letter. She had completely forgotten that Harry Potter was with his magical relatives…

But no… She reread the letter again. Harry mentioned '_his father_'. It couldn't be James - he was dead. Had someone adopted him? Did he call that horrid uncle a father? Had she been wrong about the Dursleys - had they treated him like a son of their own?

Minerva looked at the envelope again and noticed that Harry had written his own address on the other side. 221B Baker Street - London? She frowned; as far as she remembered the Dursleys had lived in Surrey. Perhaps they had moved?

She set the letter down and summoned some of her own parchment. It seemed that she had to make one last visit to a muggle home.

.

The days leading up to the meeting were tense. John had come around a few times with his daughter Emily. Justin had come a few times with a nervous sort of disposition. Harry had however, already deduced a week earlier that his parents were thinking of sending him to another school somewhere in the north of Great Britain.

Justin had come by a few times to spend some time together with Harry before he left to his boarding school.

It was on the 4th of August - the day which Minerva McGonagall said she would be coming - that Harry found himself standing in the living room, anxiously awaiting her arrival. Sherlock was loitering in the kitchen, dressed in his protective gear - a large white suit and head protection which looked like a bee-keepers usual gear. John couldn't be there - he had to work.

It was at around one o'clock that the doorbell rang outside. Harry jumped up in alarm. The door to their flat was already open, therefore he could hear Mrs. Hudson welcoming the Professor into 221.

Sherlock was still in the kitchen, carefully measuring out amounts of green liquid into different test-tubes. He seemed to be too immersed in his work to notice that something else was going on. Harry rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the door.

The professor was climbing the stairs. Her footsteps were light and swift as if she was used to walking up a lot of stairs. A third thump accompanied every second thump and Harry concluded that she was either holding a cane or an umbrella.

And then… She appeared in the doorway.

Her height was average… but everything else was far from it. Her grey hair was pulled back into a right bun which was seemingly held together by nothing at all - magic perhaps? Hm… they had magical spells for hair care…

Her face was wrinkled and old but there was a certain elegance to her that only came with lots of wisdom. Her eyes were quick and intelligent and absorbed the living room of 221B very quickly.

The most peculiar thing of all, however, were her clothes. She was dressed in a long, dark robe which brushed with the ground. Her shoulders and back were covered by a dark emerald cloak which shimmered in the light. She wore a matching green hat. All in all, she looked _exactly_ how one might describe a witch.

Her eyes swept around the room, before they zeroed on Harry, who pushed himself up from his armchair and walked to her in a sure and elegant stride.

He offered her his hand. "Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall. I am Harry Potter-Holmes."

.

Harry Potter didn't look much like James Potter. That was the first thought that appeared in her mind as she examined the boy. Almost instantly after she had entered the room, he had elegantly pushed himself from his armchair and had walked to her with purpose.

James Potter had never been like that. His stance had been awkward and he hadn't walked very gracefully. Harry though, walked with inborn aristocratic elegance that few had. His back was straight and he held his head with pride and a smidgen of arrogance. His dark hair was short and elegantly brushed, exposing the lightning bolt scar.

His bright and intelligent eyes were hidden by a pair of sophisticated round glasses. The features of his face were angular and his cheeks were a little hollow. Harry was tall, taller than James Potter had ever been. In fact, there was a lot of Lily in Harry, but barely anything of James.

Frowning inwardly, Minerva took his long-fingered hand and shook it.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter."

The boy released her hand and instantly clasped his hands behind his back.

"The pleasure is all mine, Professor." He paused and waved a hand a man dressed in a white protective suit who was leaning over an assortment of beakers, bunsen-burners, test tubes and the like. "That, Professor, is my father and guardian."

Minerva stared at the man who hadn't even acknowledged her. What happened if an unwanted or dangerous person made their way into the flat - he wouldn't notice.

"Don't mind him - he's trying to find electromagnetic fields and waves on things I touch. He's convinced that my powers leave an electromagnetic trace - signature if you will - behind me."

Minerva was baffled. What was the boy talking about? Electro-what? It seemed like he was discussing magical signatures….

"Your guardian must be present for our discussion," she said in a stern voice. Harry waved his hand at the man once more.

"Technically he's here."

Minerva let out a long suffering breath. "He must understand-"

"Oh, you don't have to tell him about magic. We figured that part out. Anything regarding the school, I shall tell him at a later date-" Harry cut himself off at the stern gaze Minerva sent him. She felt a brief sense of victory - that gaze always stopped students from doing whatever they were doing. "Urgh… Fine."

Harry cleared his throat. "Oi! Dad!"

Said man jerked suddenly as if only just realising that there was someone else in the room. He turned to stare at Minerva and Harry and then removed his head gear revealing a head full of wavy, messy dark hair, sharp, cunning and dare she say it - Slytherin-like - eyes. Harry's angular features were mirrored in the man's face. His build, the eyes and the hair were all the same and Minerva felt a sudden sense of dread. Harry had said that this was his… _father_. Perhaps Lily had… no… it wasn't possible.

"Dad, this is the Professor from-"

"Ah, Hogwarts. That's right. You're here to get his supplies, aren't you?" The man said said rudely.

"Yes. I am as I mentioned in my letter Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, and you are, I assume Harry's guardian?"

"Yes, his father. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes. Holmes… wasn't that a pureblood aristocratic family? They had vanished a few generations ago. But no - this man was a muggle. He was definitively not a member of the wizarding Holmes'.

"His father was James Potter. I taught him myself." Minerva said slowly. Harry shrugged. "He was married to Lily Potter, but he," Harry gestured at Mr Holmes, "is my biological father."

Minerva blinked. So they had confirmed it now. Lily had had an affair - or so it seemed. Perhaps she and James had gone on a break?

"Ah." She paused, "Is there anywhere we can sit?"

She glanced around and saw a couch pressed against one of the walls, a table stood in front of it. Two armchairs were placed near the fireplace. And then as she watched, two of those armchairs started moving across the room and stopped behind father and son who promptly slumped down.

"Please," Harry said waving a hand at the couch. And then a second later, the couch was behind her. Minerva sat down warily, staring at Harry who was smiling pleasantly at her. Wandless magic?! The boy had just turned eleven. There was no possible way that he had mastered magic so quickly! But it couldn't be Mr Holmes - he was a muggle. And it certainly wasn't her. Harry had somehow managed to master conscious accidental magic!

Minerva stored that information away for later. First, she had to inform them about Hogwarts.

"Now. Your name, Mr Potter has been down for Hogwarts since your birth-"

"Since my birth? How is that possible?"

"There is a magical quill at Hogwarts which notes down names of magical children across the whole of Great Britain."

Father and son turned towards each other, both with excited and interested expression.

"They probably have a way of tracing electromagnetic signatures! And then they find the places upon which those waves are centred and they-"

"Mr Potter!" Minerva exclaimed interrupting him. Mr Holmes gave her an odd, considering look.

"Mr Potter," she repeated a little more calmly, "We _do_ have to get it all done today!"

"Oh… Ok. Sorry." He seemed genuinely apologetic.

"As I was saying, your parents wished for you to attend Hogwarts. Hogwarts is a school that was built over a thousand years ago. It has four houses; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and… Slytherin."

"You were a Gryffindor." Mr Holmes said staring at her with narrowed eyes.

Minerva inclined her head slightly, "Correct." She didn't even bother to ask how he knew. Mr Holmes and Harry seemed to be both highly intelligent.

"What about classes? What are the core classes?" Holmes said quickly.

"Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, History of Magic, Potions and Herbology. We also offer Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Divination and Muggle Studies after third year."

"You're the Transfiguration professor?" Harry asked innocently. She caught an amused smile on Homes' lips.

"Correct," she echoed her statement.

"There aren't English courses, history, politics or the sciences?" Holmes exclaimed suddenly with a very outraged countenance. Minerva was used to this question by now, many muggle parents asked that.

"No. But if students wish to do independent studies, they are allowed to do so."

Holmes harrumphed unhappily but said nothing else.

"And what are the advantages of magic?" Harry asked. Minerva's mouth floundered for a moment - no one had asked her _that_ before!

"I mean: I saw a stick - a wand I presume - in a holster around your wrist earlier and I assume wizards and witches generally use a wand to cast spells?" He continued.

Minerva cleared her throat and nodded hesitantly. "Yes, Mr Potter. It is… uncommon for wizards to be able to cast wandless magic."

Father and son shared a meaningful glance and Minerva suddenly understood why. Harry could do wandless magic!

"So… Wizards are _dependant_ on… _wands_?" Mr Holmes said critically. Harry wrinkled his nose as if that thought didn't appeal much to him either.

"Yes," Minerva replied bemusedly.

"So… Essentially, wizards have no power when disarmed?" Harry said with a frown.

"There are many jobs one can do in the wizarding world without having to do magic."

Harry harrumphed.

"You mentioned Muggle studies earlier. What are Muggles?"

Minerva scolded herself. Usually she was much more concentrated than this. Harry's eagerness and exuberance kept throwing her off balance.

"Forgive me for not explaining everything fully. Muggles are non-magical people such as Mr Holmes." She nodded at said man. "Muggleborns are wizards and witches born from two Muggle parents. Halfbloods are wizards who are half Muggle or Muggleborn and half Wizarding. You are, for example, a halfblood. Purebloods are people who's ancestry is purely magical."

Harry narrowed his eyes, "Is there any animosity between these different groups?"

Minerva's mouth floundered for a moment - how did he know that? "Why yes, Mr Potter! There are certain Purebloods who… dislike Muggleborns. If I may ask, how did you know?"

Harry smiled indulgently, "Why else would the need be for the different names for the specific groups? Obviously the name 'pureblood' is the most flattering so one can assume that they are in charge of wizarding society."

That was surprisingly… _logical_, she thought. That boy was going straight to Ravenclaw.

Mr Holmes stood up suddenly. "Well then. I see no problem with Harry going to Hogwarts." He paused for a moment and ruffled Harry's hair, "I shall send him materials to continue with his… _muggle_ education. Now, you must excuse me - I believe one of my chemicals is about to explode."

He rushed to the kitchen.

"Harry! Take the credit card for money!" He said after a moment. Then after a brief moment of silence, his head appeared from behind the doorway. "Or do wizards have their own currency - and government? Ah - and do they have wizarding police - of course! They must have!"

Minerva was suddenly slightly overwhelmed. The man vanished into the kitchen once more.

"We have our own currency. But worry not! Harry's parents set up a trust vault for him!" She said loudly.

"Very well." Holmes said, "You may take Harry to buy the proper supplies. I however wish him to be back here at no later than ten o'clock. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do not wish to come?" she said, surprised. Muggles usually jumped at the opportunity to see the wizarding precinct in London.

"Ah… no. I shall ask Harry to take me there at a later date!" With that Holmes vanished into the kitchen.

Minerva turned back to Harry and was about to tell to come along when Holmes' voice penetrated the silence.

"Oh, and Harry! Don't forget to attain the answers to my questions!"

"Sure, dad! I'll see you later!" He stood up.

"Shall we, professor?"

.

Sherlock heard the door shut downstairs and concluded that Harry was gone. He let a breath escape through his mouth. He closed his eyes and put the test tube down. The last time he had taken Harry to visit his grandparents, his father had taken him aside to speak about 'private matters'. Mycroft who had been there that time too, had watched them with shrewd, knowing eyes.

At the time, Sherlock's father had told him that when Harry turned eleven, there was a large possibility that he would receive a letter from a magical school. He had not said why, or how, but he had said it. Sherlock exhaled again.

His father somehow knew about the _wizarding world_! Mycroft it seemed knew too and Sherlock finally understood why. His big brother singlehandedly controlled the British Government, there was no doubt he knew of the wizarding world. After all, the two worlds had to be working together for the _muggle_ world to know nothing of the wizarding one.

He knew that his father had never attended Hogwarts. Sherlock like his father had attended Eton from the age of eleven. Sherlock still remembered how his mathematics professor had repeatedly told him how utterly great his father was in algebra.

Sherlock's father had also told him to inform him as soon as Harry received the letter. And exhaling again, Sherlock made his way to the desk in the living room. Picking out a piece of paper and an envelope, he began writing his letter to his father - one demanding answers.

* * *

I recently saw that this story has achieved over 500 reviews and I cannot say how utterly happy I am... it is such an honour... and wow. Thank you so much! Thank you for reading, faving, following and reviewing. My inbox is perpetually full and I absolutely love that feeling. Thank you again!

_Ok. Now to make some things clear:_

_1\. Siger Holmes isa squib and comes from a Pureblood family. They cast him out of the family when he was 11 years old (when his Hogwarts letter didn't come and they found out that he's a squib) and he has not been or heard anything from the Wizarding World since then. If he _had _gone to Hogwarts, he would have been there at the same time Tom Riddle was there so he doesn't know about Voldemort. _

_2\. Harry is a Halfblood as his mother is a Muggleborn (but a wizard) and his father is a Muggle. Sherlock is **not **a squib because squibs can only be produced when at least _one _parent is magical. Siger Holmes is a squib (also called a wizard-born muggle) and is hence not magical meaning that Sherlock can only possibly be a muggle. _

_3\. Mycroft knows that Harry is the Boy-Who-Lived but hasn't said anything yet so as to give Harry a relatively normal childhood. He does not want him to get a big head like his father. _

_4\. Siger has suspicions that Harry might be a wizard. _

_5\. There will be more family bonding before Harry goes to Hogwarts. Promise. _

**Anonymous reviews:**

**Sarah**: Thank you for your review! haha I really wanted a few subtle elements from canon in my story.

**Grumpy**: Thank you!

**Guest**: Oooh - I wouldn't update so consistently (well... relatively consistent) if one of my friends didn't badger me day and night.

**KK: **Right. Ok. So: If you look in Harry Potter Wikia Dean Thomas is described as more or less what I described him as. The person you mean who is down for Eton is Justin Finch-Fletchley who you might notice is in this story XD Hahah deductions aren't my strong point - as you may have already seen. Omg. Siger Holmes is my favourite character and he will appear again - promise. Actually... I think he'll be in the next chapter. XD


	12. Chapter 11

Most of the scientific stuff found in this chapter is either from Wikipedia or in my chemistry notebook (basically blame wiki or my chem teacher for any mistakes and me for repeating them and being an idiot and not realising)

_also, I usually answer _all_ of the reviews I receive... but lately I haven't been able to reply to reviews that well - some kind of fanfiction . net error. So yeah, sorry if you didn't receive a reply from me - thank you for reviewing though!_

enjoy!

I will be posting the next chapter on Friday (It's prewritten). Urgh... HP-H finally goes to hoggie in the next chapter! Cant wait!

* * *

"…But _that's not possible_!" Harry exclaimed as he held on tightly to the arms of his bus seat as it swerved around a car and then… suddenly seemed to shrink and pass right between two lorries.

"Oi! Ernie! Will you look at tha' - the boy finks that's no' po'ible!" Shouted an elderly man with light hair and protruding ears to the driver of the Knight Bus. A similar man - younger, but with the same features (probably his son) - meandered down the isle offering people beverages. It was beyond Harry how people could drink anything while the bus was in motion.

Harry was almost thrown out of his seat as the bus jerked sharply to the right. Farther up front, he saw that the son of the elderly conductor had fallen down on his arse. The cups filled with steaming, hot-chocolate were still in his hands and oddly not a single one had spilled. Harry wondered suddenly whether they had some sort of anti-spilling charm on them.

"'Choo lookin' at?" Said the young man. He was a few years older than Harry - about sixteen or fifteen.

Harry stared at him for another moment then turned his incredulous gaze to McGonagall who's lips were slightly tilted upwards.

"How the hell-" McGonagall shot him a disapproving glare and Harry corrected himself, "How does this bus… I mean how does it drive between other cars? It's simply not _possible_! It's as if outside it has lost mass, but inside it's still all the same… but there's no way it could have driven between those two lorries?!" He exclaimed. It seemed that the Magical World seemed hell-bent on destroying every single shred of faith and respect he had for physics.

McGonagall still looked amused and her mouth opened to form a word, but the bus suddenly jerked to a stop.

"Oi - Neith Nenet!" The elderly conductor shouted, holding a list of names of the people on the bus and their intended destinations. A man a few seats away from Harry jerked upright and Harry suddenly noticed that he was dressed in full Ancient Egyptian garb. Harry glanced out the window and redoubled a few seconds later, staring wide-eyed at the desert outside. He could see a pyramid in the distance.

"We're in… Egypt." He breathed silently, eyes wide and unbelieving. McGonagall seemed to purse her lips and Harry suddenly realised she was trying to stop herself from laughing. The Egyptian gentleman stepped out of the bus and almost instantly, the bus shot off again.

"W-why? B-But _how_?" He checked his watch. Only ten minutes had passed since he and McGonagall had boarded the bus. How had they come all the way from _London_ to _Egypt_?

McGonagall stared at him with glittering, twinkling eyes and Harry almost subconsciously moved closer to her to hear what she was going to say. She then whispered:

"Magic."

Harry scowled at her.

"How come non-magical people-"

"Muggles," the transfiguration professor supplied. Harry blinked at her.

"Yes, yes, right. How do the muggles _not_ notice a bus suddenly… _loosing_ its mass and driving between two other lorries?!"

The young man overheard him and grinned toothily at him, revealing a rotten tooth. Harry wondered if there were ways to repair teeth magically - he wouldn't have to get fillings anymore!

"Them!" He exclaimed suddenly, startling both Harry and McGonagall, "Don' listen properly, do they? Don' look properly either. Never notice nuffink, they don'." McGonagall looked at him disapprovingly - probably at the prejudice he was displaying.

"Sorry profes'or." He said with a slightly lowered head.

McGonagall gave him a stern look. "You may have finished your OWLs, and you may have already started to work, Mr Shunpike but that does _not_ mean that one can belittle mundane folk!"

Stan Shunpike nodded meekly and stumbled away with a quiet 'sorry'.

Harry frowned. "OWLs? Are those like A-levels? If so, why is he so young? I mean he looks about sixteen - there's no way he's already finished school!"

McGonagall shook her head slowly, "No you are correct. OWLs are the equivalent of O-levels, also known as GCSEs. In the wizarding world one can leave school after completing these exams and keep a wand-"

"Wait, so if you don't do your GCSEs - pardon me - OWLs, you can't keep your wand?!" Harry exclaimed. McGonagall nodded once.

"The equivalent of A-Levels are the NEWTs."

Harry stared down at his feet for a moment, mulling everything over. "Weird names," he finally muttered. Seeing McGonagall's bemused look, he elaborated. "NEWTs and OWLs - odd names…"

"Ah. Yes. OWLs stands for Ordinary Wizarding Levels and NEWTs for Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests."

Harry frowned again - it seemed someone had created the abbreviations first, and had then created the proper names. A few moments later he was almost literally jerked out of his thoughts as the bus came to another sudden stop.

"'fessor McGonagall and James Holmes!" Shouted the elderly conductor. Harry wrinkled his nose at the pseudonym.

And then, suddenly, Harry and McGonagall were standing in the middle of the pavement on Charing Cross Road. Pedestrians were milling about them, some cast McGonagall a few odd looks at her choice of clothing, but other than that, no one seemed aware of the fact that a huge, black and blue bus had just appeared out of nowhere and had then disappeared with a large _bang_!

He was about to turn to McGonagall and ask her how that was possible, but she opened her mouth quicker.

"Magic," she said smugly. Harry mock-glowered at her. "The charm used is called a 'muggle repelling charm'."

They started walking down the pavement and after a moment of silence, Harry asked, "You mentioned a 'curse' before and 'spell' before that. I assume," Harry tapped his chin with his fore-finger, "that 'spell' is the generic term for all magic cast with spells and that there are different sort of spells that go into different categories."

McGonagall looked at him, surprised, as if she hadn't ever really thought about it. Then slowly, she nodded. "Correct, Mr Potter-"

"It's not Mr Potter. You've been calling me that all the time but I changed my name to Potter-Holmes. So call me Holmes or Potter-Holmes." She wrinkled her nose.

"Very well - Mr Holmes. You are correct of course. I teach transfiguration; a branch of magic which transforms an object into something else. Via transfiguration, one can also conjure objects-"

"_Conjure_ objects?! But that's not possible. What about the principle of conservation of mass? The law implies (requires) that in an isolated system, the total mass of the reactants or starting materials must be equal to the mass of the products!" Harry recited from one of the chemistry textbooks he had read when he had first come to Baker Street. "You _can't_ create something out of nothing!"

McGonagall massaged the bridge of her nose, "You're going straight into Ravenclaw."

Harry ignored her and instead concentrated upon the problem… Transfiguration should be impossible… unless…. "Oh!" He cried out in excitement and jumped up in the air. A few passersby looked at him oddly and he ignored them too, "I got it! You _do_ use the principle of conservation! You're not creating something out of nothing - you're taking the air particles and transforming them into something with the same mass!"

McGonagall looked pleasantly surprised and impressed. "Very good, Mr Pott-Homes! That is actually fourth year theory."

Harry smiled smugly and they continued walking for a few moments, then started looking around at the shops nearby. As far as he knew, there weren't any shops nearby that looked like they sold wands and other wizarding objects.

"So - where are we going?" He finally asked. McGonagall smiled at him indulgently and Harry suddenly realised that this was the first real smile he'd seen from her. So far, bewilderment and bemusement were pretty much the only expressions he had received from her.

McGonagall didn't answer him instantly, for they walked a few more metres before stopping in front of a dingy looking pub. As Harry looked around other people's faces around them he saw that they didn't really seem to notice the pub. Instead, their eyes simply slipped from the bookshop on the right to the second hand shop on the left.

"Another muggle repelling charm?" Harry asked hesitantly. McGonagall nodded approvingly.

"Among other spells." She then gestured to the pub. "This is one of the many ways to access Diagon Alley, but unfortunately the only Muggle way to enter it. Welcome to the illustrious and famous Leaky Cauldron Pub." She said somewhat dramatically.

Harry's eyes glanced away from her and to the pub which not only looked dingy, but also run down. It was painted in dark colour, but the paint was flaking and the red bricks were slowly becoming more evident. The sign above it was hanging upon one rope, the second had ripped and as a result, the sign was hanging at an odd angle. Depicted on it, was a cauldron with a puddle underneath it.

It didn't particularly look like a famous and illustrious pub.

McGonagall seemed to read his thoughts because she nodded understandingly and then led him inside after telling him to keep his head down.

Inside, it looked like a normal pub - but it was different. The people were different (all dressed in robes and odd looking hats), pictures of what Harry presumed to be famous people hung on the walls and they _moved_. Paintings hung at odd angles and the people in them conversed with each other in low tones - a young man in one of them even waved at Harry when he caught him staring!

A waitress was walking around, serving people while a large tray floated behind her covered with plates and drinks full of odd looking food. McGonagall didn't dawdle too long - but she _did_ greet the barman. She ushered Harry to the back of the pub and then to a small, dingy backroom. Harry was going to ask her where they were going when he caught sight of the very worn brick floor and he turned his gaze to stare at the wall.

Placing a hand on it, he confirmed it was solid and not an illusion. But why was the floor so worn? Evidently, lots of people had walked _against_ the wall… Harry cocked his head to the side and glanced up at McGonagall who was staring at him expectantly.

"So… People walk through the wall?"

Her lips quirked upwards slightly and she tilted her head to the side, considering his question.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. How did you know?"

Harry scratched the back of his head. "Well," he drawled slowly, "why else would you lead me to the back room of a dingy pub?" He paused, "Oh, and the floor is worn and there are several footprints on it leading to the wall."

McGonagall's eyebrows arched upwards, "Well guessed, Mr Holmes."

Harry pursed his lips, "Not guessed, Professor. It's called _deduction_. I observe, collect facts and then form a conclusion."

She snorted and tried to cover it up with a laugh. "Well then, Mr Holmes, if it's not guessing, then try to _deduce_ how wizards enter the alley." She challenged. Harry bit the inside of his cheek. His father always told him not to use deduction for the sake of impressing people. It was like a weapon and one should always treat it as such. It wasn't a tool for entertainment.

Nevertheless, Harry gathered his wits and resolve. His father wouldn't know - besides, McGonagall wouldn't take him seriously until he proved that he was worthy of her respect. Not that children were often respected.

His hand was still resting upon the wall and he was about to remove it, when he felt an oddity under his fingers. There were odd indentations on some of the bricks. Frowning slightly, Harry traced his fingers over the six bricks with the same indentations. Wasn't that what a tip of a wand looked like? Was the wall like the face of a safe? Maybe one had to tap the bricks in a specific way for the wall to melt away?

"I assume…" He said slowly, "That these bricks with the indentations have to be tapped in a specific order for the Alley to reveal itself."

McGonagall once again looked pleasantly surprised and she nodded.

"Once again, correct." She gazed at the brick wall. "But indentations? I don't see any."

Harry rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers against the six fingers in a random pattern, "Maybe you don't see 'em, but I feel 'em."

McGonagall harrumphed but seemed convinced as a moment later, she was tapping the bricks with her wand. Harry's eyes followed the wand, memorising the pattern so that he could show his father on a later date.

The next thing that happened would have left him gawping if McGonagall hadn't shaken him out of it.

The brick wall suddenly started to part in the middle, and bricks started to shift, spin and move and rearrange themselves. Then suddenly, Harry was standing in the middle of an arch and was staring into a long shopping street.

.

Harry was… interesting.

That as the only word that came to mind when Minerva tried to describe him. He was an odd, young man - not not young man - child. It was hard to think of him as a child. His intelligence surpassed that of most of the adults she knew and his maturity too. Yet there still was that innocence and slight naïvety that many children have. She thanked Merlin for that. Children deserved a childhood.

His child-like enthusiasm was… and dare she say it… cute and very contagious. His often very indignant remarks about what magic did made a bubble of amusement constantly want to rise up to her mouth. And precisely now, that bubble popped in her mouth and she let out a short, mirthful laugh.

Harry was staring at Diagon Alley with the most flabbergasted expression on his face. There was also a hint of betrayal in there as if he couldn't quite believe that science wouldn't be able to explain it all this time around. And glancing at the wizarding shopping precinct, Minerva had to admit that it _was_ a rather impressive sight.

She shook his shoulder gently and started walking forwards. Glancing behind her, she noted that Harry was still staring disbelievingly at everything around him. Rolling her eyes, Minerva took hold of his thin shoulder and started leading him to Gringotts.

They paused to times on their way there, one time because she had to convince him that the bookstore would still be there when they came out of the bank and a second time because he had stopped in front of the quidditch store.

"Your father - pardon me - your step father, James loved quidditch. It's a sport many wizards practice."

Harry turned to stare at her, bewildered. "Why would anyone willingly fly in the air, with only a _broom_ between their legs - several feet above the ground?!"

Minerva swallowed her disappointment. She had been wishing - perhaps subconsciously - that Harry would like quidditch. Somehow, she wanted him to be Harry _Potter_ and not Harry Potter-_Holmes_. She winced at that thought - if she voiced it, Harry would no doubt go into another indignant speech about prejudice.

"You say my step-dad played the game?" Harry asked after a moment of silence. He continued staring at the broom (a nimbus 2000!) shown in the shop window. Minerva nodded once and suddenly felt emotion threatening to overcome her. Ten years on, and the grief of losing her friend and once-student hadn't lessened.

"Yes, he was a chaser on his school team. So good at it, that many thought that he'd become a professional. Of course… he never made it."

"Chaser? And why didn't he make it-" He paused and winced, "Sorry. I didn't think. Dad says I often talk without thinking. Sorry."

Minerva sighed and put a placating hand on his shoulder. "The chaser is an important position in the game. Each team has seven players. Three chasers, two beaters, one keeper and a seeker. There are three balls, one is the quaffle, the second is the bludger (there are two of these in each game) and the snitch. There are three hoops on both sides of the field.

"Now. The chasers pass the quaffle to each other and try to get it into the hoops while the keepers try to defend said hoops. Every single time the quaffle goes through a hoop the team receives ten points. The beaters have bats and try to knock members of the other team of their brooms by hitting the bludgers to them. The seeker tries to find the snitch - a small, flying, gold ball with wings - and has to try to catch it. This is worth 150 points."

Harry turned to stare at her for a long moment and Minerva found herself suddenly very exposed although she didn't let it show on her face.

"You mean to say… that this is all played while the team members fly at-" He looked at the small card floating next to the broom which displayed all of its properties, "70-80 kilometres an hour?!" He paused for a moment as he recalled what Minerva had said, "_And_ there are two _other_ people trying to knock them off their brooms!?"

McGonagall winced. If one put it like that… it _did_ sound like a dangerous sport. Suddenly she noticed that a few people had stopped to stare and she gently patted Harry's back. It wouldn't do for Harry to suddenly be mobbed. After all, she still had to tell him who he was. Today, she promised herself, she would tell him today.

"Come along now, Mr _Holmes_," she said silently, aware of the curious glances people were giving her. Harry shot her a confused stare. They made their way to the bank in silence. A few times, Harry would stop briefly to stare at one thing or other, eyes glinting with curiosity.

And then suddenly, as they walked over the threshold of the bank, Minerva suddenly wondered whether Harry would still be accepted at Harry Potter. If he wasn't James Potter's biological son… maybe he wouldn't be granted access to the vault.

Hopefully, James Potter had only willed it to Harry Potter on the event of his death, and not necessarily a blood relative.

They made their way to the first free teller - a young goblin who only had one star on his tunic signifying that he had only been working for one year. An older, wizened goblin was standing behind him, examining the way he worked. Obviously, the younger one was an apprentice.

"Mr Potter wishes to withdraw money from his vault," she said silently, trying not to attract attention. The elderly goblin's eyebrow twitched, but otherwise, his professional scowl didn't change a bit. The younger goblin's eyes widened and he let out a gasp. Once more Harry shot Minerva a confused stare, evidently already suspecting that she wasn't telling him the full truth about his parents.

"And is mister Potter a Potter?" Said the elderly goblin a little nastily. Harry frowned.

"No actually, my father is Sherlock Holmes. James Potter must've adopted me."

This time, the younger goblin gulped soundly and turned his head slightly to ask a silent question to his superior.

"Sherlock Holmes, you say?" The elderly goblin said with a hint of surprise. "The son of Siger Holmes, the squib?"

"Well… yes - how do you know? And what's a squib?" Minerva vaguely heard Harry ask those questions, but she ignored him for the time being. She knew Siger Holmes. Or rather she had heard of him - from his brother! His brother had been a Slytherin in her year while she had been at Hogwarts. A year after Tom Riddle had left Hogwarts she had become Head girl, and Sherrinford Holmes had become Head Boy. They had been forced to work together.

He came from the old Holmes family… and he had once told her about his squib brother when he had come back into their Head boy/girl quarters, completely pissed out of his mind.

And now… Harry was his brother's grandson!

She shook her head, right now, she had to concentrate on the boy next to her, and not on past memories! She cleared her throat.

"A squib is a magic-less child born to two magical parents. In essence, this is a mutation and does not happen very often. The magic gene is dominant, you see," Minerva said when Harry had turned his attention to her.

"Wait… So you're saying my great-grandparents on my dad's and granddad's side were wizards?!" He exclaimed. The elderly goblin winced as he looked around and saw that a middle-aged wizard glanced at them curiously.

"Mr Potter - or rather - Holmes, why don't we take this to a more private place?" The elderly goblin said, now taking full control of the situation. With a snap of his fingers, the table separating them vanished and he allowed both Harry and Minerva to walk through. Then with another snap of his fingers, the table reappeared.

The goblin led them to a well-furnished room with human-size chairs sitting across a goblin-sized desk. The goblin sat down and gestured to his two human clients to do the same. The goblin steepled his fingers.

"My name is Griphook-" he didn't get far before he was interrupted by Harry.

"How do you know my dad and grandfather?" He demanded somewhat rudely and without thinking. Almost instantly the boy lowered his head in shame and muttered a meek apology. The goblin regarded him for a moment then glanced at Minerva hesitantly.

"Minerva McGonagall, I am afraid these matters are confidential-"

"Let her stay," Harry mumbled. The goblin snapped his mouth shut for a moment then inclined his head.

"As you wish." He paused, "Wizarding Britain only has some forty or fifty noble families left and as employees of Gringotts bank, we goblins must know who they are and who is part of their families. We also keep an eye on the families that have gone 'extinct'. Sometimes, an heir appears out of nowhere."

He grinned toothily and Minerva wrinkled her nose at the rotten, sharp and blackened teeth.

"It so happens, that you grandfather was a squib from the Holmes family. His brother and his family were murdered and your grandfather was left with the muggle Lordship. As a squib he was not able to inherit the magical Lordship. As a wizard, and his direct grandson, you can inherit the magical Lordship when you come of age. The magical Lordship has been dormant for many years now."

Harry was staring at him with those wide, innocent (but almost scarily intelligent) eyes. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. Then again, that wasn't a very apt description for Griphook was most obviously a goblin.

Minerva suddenly felt that itch at the back of her throat compelling her to laugh. Harry Potter - the saviour of the light was the heir to a predominantly dark-neutral family! Oh the irony!

There was a long pause in which no one said anything. Harry was still staring at the goblin with wide eyes, but Minerva saw that his eyes were twinkling, and the gears in his head were moving. He was mulling everything over.

Then, suddenly, his face relaxed and his mouth turned into an easy smile. "Ohhh, dad's gonna love this!"

Albus will too, thought Minerva somewhat dryly.

.

When Harry had stepped into the bank - he hadn't known what to expect… certainly not goblins! He was still grinning at the thought! Goblins managing a bank! It was such a ludicrous thought but… then again… everything ludicrous seemed to make sense in the wizarding world.

And now, they were roller-coasting back up to the surface after having visited the Potter vault. The goblin had revealed that the Potters, before their death, had willed everything to Harry in a non-familial will meaning that James Potter must've know that Harry wasn't his… Yet he had still stayed with Lily and had tried to raise him as his son. That sent unexpected warmth through Harry.

Harry had chosen not to enter the Holmes vault just yet. It was his grandfather's, his father's and his - it was only fair that they would all investigate it's contents together. Besides, the goblin had told him that being one of the older vaults, the Holmes vault was guarded by a dragon something which Harry didn't want to face without his father.

So now, with a pouch full of galleons, sickles and knuts, he and McGonagall made their way out of the bank, nodding politely at the goblins that they passed.

"So - how does wizarding money work?" Harry asked his soon-to-be professor. She raised an eyebrow.

"Like… How much is a knut to a sickle, a sickle to a galleon…?"

"17 sickles in a gallon and 29 knuts in a sickle." McGonagall rattled off automatically. Harry pondered this for a moment. Why would anyone make money so unnecessarily hard to count?! His mind rushed through the calculations.

"So… it's 493 knuts to a galleon?" McGonagall nodded once. His mind rushed through other calculations. "Meaning that one knut is 0.2028% of a Galleon? And one sickle is almost six percent of a galleon? Hmm… That's certainly an odd way to count money…" He mumbled to himself, unaware that McGonagall was staring at him, bewildered.

"And how much is a galleon in GBP?"

"GBP?" McGonagall echoed. Harry raised an eyebrow - she didn't know what GBP was? Well… then again she was a teacher, not a goblin.

"British Pound Sterling…. you know, muggle money?"

"Ah." She paused, "Well, I believe at the current exchange rate, one Galleon is about five… pounds."

Harry raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his bulging pouch. That was a lot of money.

"But that doesn't really make sense…" He pulled a coin out of the pouch and weighed it in his hand. "Currently, one gram of gold is about 24 pounds. This coin has 'bout the same weight as a 10p coin (which is about 6 grams), meaning that a gold coin should technically be six times that amount. This means that one galleon should be the equivalent of 144 pounds - if we're vague and leave out the decimals."

McGonagall kept staring at him and Harry shrugged. "Oh well, I don't suppose we have time for me to convince the goblins of that fact. Besides, it would make it harder for muggleborns to buy their supplies."

"Harry Potter-Holmes. You are definitively going into Ravenclaw."

"You keep mentioning that… Why Ravenclaw? Do the houses have specific traits?" McGonagall started leading him down the alley.

"Ravenclaw is the house for the intelligent, named after Rowena Ravenclaw, Gryffindor is a house for the brave, named after Godric Gryffindor. Hufflepuff is the house for the hard working and loyal, named after Helga Hufflepuff. Slytherin is a house for the… ambitious. Named after Salazar Slytherin. Each house has a specific mascot. Gryffindor has a lion, Ravenclaw a raven, Hufflepuff a badger and Slytherin a snake."

Harry nodded once to show that he was following her small lecture. They entered a clothing shop and McGonagall called a tailor over. They talked in quiet tones for a moment before the tailor nodded and showed Harry to a stool.

"Mr Holmes. I shall meet you here in half an hour when Miss Green is finished with your measurements. Yes?"

Harry nodded hesitantly. And then McGonagall was gone.

The Boy-Who-Lived but Who-Didn't-Know-It-Yet, got up on the stool, noting suddenly, that he wasn't the only one in the shop. A peroxide blond boy was standing on the stool next to him while another woman attended to him. Harry's tailor started doing the same.

"Ah, hello! Hogwarts too?" The boy said with an unbelievingly posh accent. Then again, Harry's uncle was the British Government, this wasn't exactly new. Justin had also been pretty stuck up till Harry had managed to crack that icy mask.

"Yes, surprisingly," he said somewhat dryly and glanced down at the robe that his tailor had draped over him. A Hogwarts crest was already sewn onto the left side of his chest. The boy's cheeks turned a little red.

"My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." He said, straightening his back and Harry suddenly realised that he was (or his father) probably an important member in wizarding society.

Harry grinned back. "The name's Bond, James Bond." Harry said, with his best '007' impersonation. He remembered how he had tried it on his father back when he had been investigating the murder in Surrey. Malfoy frowned thoughtfully, but his tailor giggled - obviously she knew who James Bond was. Judging by the slightly muggle clothing style, Harry supposed that she must be a halfblood or a muggleborn.

"I don't know of a Bond family? Are you one of us?" He asked thoughtfully and with a little suspicion. It suddenly clicked that he must be one of those pureblood supremacists.

"One of what? Boys? Yes, I think so. Eleven year olds? Yup. Peroxide blonds - nope. My hair is dark as you can see."

Malfoy blinked at him and Harry chuckled. Malfoy's tailor giggled again and the blond boy shot her a glare. He seemed indignant that he'd been left out of a joke.

Harry chuckled again, "Actually, I'm joking. James Bond is my favourite character from a book - and a comic… it's a shame that no one understands my reference!"

Malfoy frowned again, "Who are you, then?"

Harry shrugged, "I don't know if I should be telling that to children of people who could potentially kill me in the future. Then again, you aren't your father, right?" Malfoy visibly recoiled. "Hmm - do you write a lot? Judging by the calluses on your fingers - you do… I can't imagine an eleven year old writing lots of letters… our generation just doesn't do that as much as the adults do. So… what do you write? Poems, dramas, stories?" Harry watched closely for a reaction.

People often gave involuntary twitches when the right answer was said. Harry raised an eyebrow, as Mafloy's mouth twitched at 'stories'. "Oh - you write stories? About what?"

Malfoy's mouth floundered for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed. "By Salazar's name, who are you?!"

Harry extended a hand, he was going to introduce himself with Harry Potter. Judging from the reactions the goblins had given him, Holmes was a well-known name in the wizarding world. Maybe it was better to go by a simple name such as Harry Potter. Inconspicuous.

"Harry Potter, pleased to make your acquaintance!"

.

When Minerva finally returned to the bookshop she felt much better than she had in the last couple of hours. It was a marvel what a cup of coffee could do to one's spirits. Harry was a sweet boy, but his inquisitive nature was a smidgen exhausting. Upon entering, she saw a blonde boy sitting next to Harry on the waiting chairs. Evidently they had already gotten their measurements and were now waiting for all of their sets of robes to come back.

However, the thing that worried Minerva was the mischievous look the blond boy was sporting. Harry was facing away from her, but she was sure that if he were to turn around, she would see the same expression on his face.

"…So then, my father turns to him and for the fifth or sixth time says Gareth - instead of Greg!" The boys dissolved into laughter and Minerva blinked in surprise. What had happened when she was away? As she gazed at the two of them, giggling away like they had been friends since their births, Minerva suddenly wondered whether it was possible to become friends with another person in such a short amount of time.

Then suddenly, the blond boy caught sight of Minerva and he sobered instantly. Harry turned around to see the cause of that and the corner of his lip tilted upwards in a half-smile.

"Mr Potter, come along. We can come back for the robes later. We still need to get the rest of your supplies - and I'd rather be finished before nightfall."

Harry stood up swiftly and did a mock-army farewell to the blond boy.

"See you at Hogwarts!" He exclaimed loudly, and followed Minerva out the door.

Their next stop was Flourish and Blotts where Minerva almost literally had to drag Harry out of the store once his book basket had become so full, that even the enlargement and lightening charms weren't working anymore. As Minerva had dragged him out of the store, the boy had vowed to come back and by half of it. Minerva was now starting to think that that boy would and _could_ do something like that.

After that, they had walked up to the north side of the alley and had entered the apothecary, where Harry had spent more than half an hour quizzing the shop keeper about science in the wizarding world. He had been very surprised to know that apparently, wizards also had a periodic table, albeit a very different one.

After that, they had entered the magical artefacts shop to buy the necessary equipment for astronomy. Here, Harry had gone into another long monologue about how muggle telescopes were much better and much more efficient. He had refused to buy the telescope in the shop and had promised to bring his own.

The last shop that they entered was Ollivander's.

.

The shop was quiet - almost unnaturally quiet. Was there such a thing as silencing spells? if so - would one call them curses or charms? What would one classify a silencing spell as, a cruse or a charm? Shaking his head to clear it from stray thoughts, Harry focused on the task at hand. McGonagall had left this store for last. Evidently, wands were important.

However, Harry couldn't see why. He could do magic perfectly well without a wand. Why would he need one only to grow dependant on it?

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter." Said a quiet, whisper-like voice from the corner of the room and Harry instantly looked in that direction. A man was leaning against a stack of boxes. He was old - incredibly so and had a willowy complexion. Somehow, it seemed as though a gust of wind would be able to topple him over. His hair was all Einstein-style, chaotic and white. His bushy eyebrows partly covered his eyebrows, but even from this distance, Harry could see that they were silver in colour.

"Actually, its Potter-Holmes." He said matter of factly.

Ollivander's mouth quirked into a smile and his head turned very suddenly and jerkily towards McGonagall who was standing stiffly in the shadows near the door. "Minerva McGonagall, nine and a half inches, dragon-string core. Made out of fir - incredibly stiff and excellent for transfiguration." Olivander said, once again in that mysterious voice of his. McGonagall gave a stiff nod.

Harry raised an eyebrow, impressed.

"I remember every wand I ever sold, Mr Potter-Holmes," said the man and sat down behind the desk at the end of the store. It was covered with different woods, jars and… lots of feathers. Harry assumed it was here that he made wands.

"Now, Mr Potter-Holmes, why are you here?"

Harry raised a confused eyebrow, "I am correct in assuming that you sell wands?" The shop keeper nodded.

"Yes, of course I sell wands, but why are you here?"

Harry blinked. "Well, I _have_ to get a wand, don't I?" He said slowly, still unhappy with the fact that he would be dependant on doing magic with a wand.

"And therein lies the problem," said Ollivander with a satisfied smile. Harry continued staring at him, not understanding what he meant. Which was odd. He usually understood what people said.

"You do not _want_ a wand. You feel as though you are being forced to buy a wand. Why are you here then? No wand will ever bond with a wizard if it knows that it is not wanted."

Harry blinked. Wands could think? He voiced his thoughts and Ollivander chuckled.

"Why, of course they can!" He left it at that, and walked around his desk to stand in front of Harry.

"No wand will ever bond and accept you, my boy, if you do not try-"

"I don't want to become dependant on one," Harry confessed quickly and saw Ollivander raise an eyebrow inquisitively and elaborated: "Wizards seem to believe that they need a wand, even though - I believe - anyone can do magic without a wand. Professor McGonagall has already explained the concept of accidental magic to me and my theory is that accidental magic is simply our innate magic responding to our feelings - for example when we are under a lot of pressure. In these cases, people are too distracted by the situation to register the fact that they have done wandless magic. Meaning that dependance is purely psychological and I do not wish to become psychologically dependant on a wand - not on a stick of wood."

Ollivander laughed - this time a full blown laugh which echoed around the whole store. Even the usually stern and expressionless McGonagall looked startled.

"Oh, very good, my boy! Very good! Your reasoning is exceptional! Mind you - wand's are not sticks." He paused for a moment, staring at Harry with a thoughtful expression, "I assume then, that you have mastered your control over your magic?" Ollivander exclaimed.

Harry blushed, "I haven't mastered it, per se, but I have some tricks up my sleeve."

Ollivander chuckled again and put a hand on his shoulder. Harry almost flinched - he hated it when unfamiliar people touched him. It made him uncomfortable and it made him remember the Dursleys.

"Well, then, my boy, you have nothing to worry about - nothing at all! If you don't let yourself believe that you need a wand to do magic, you shall not become dependant. Do try not to mix _needing_ with _wanting_. You can want a wand, but not necessarily need it to do all enchantments. Understood, my boy?" At Harry's hesitant nod he removed his hand and started walked down the length of his store, picking out boxes from here and there. "Let's get you a wand then."

Almost an hour later, Harry had tried most of the wands in the store and about twenty wands had reacted very, very badly to him. He was like a catalyst for these things. Harry was starting to loose faith when Ollivander emerged from the back of his store with a pile of boxes, some covered with a thick layer of dust.

McGonagall had conjured herself an armchair and had dozed off. Harry very sorely wanted to prank her (he and Justin had recently pranked his father while he'd been sleeping. Needless to say, Justin's father hadn't been happy. At all.), but Ollivander kept sending him stern looks which basically said 'no'.

Olivander set the boxes down on the desk and pulled the lids off.

Harry's eyes immediately zeroed on a thin, stiff looking, dark wand. It was simple and it looked like someone had simply picked up a stick in the forest and had then polished it. But even from his position, Harry could feel waves of power coming from it. Almost as if he was being controlled, Harry's hand reached over to reach it and hovered over it for a moment.

Then he pulled it out.

It was like someone had simultaneously set off bombs in is head, body and all around him. Like fireworks. Yeah. Fireworks. A feeling of elation came over him and bliss followed soon after. Harry opened his eyes - which he hadn't even realised he had opened - and was amazed to see that sparks were coming out of _his_ wand. They seemed to fly out of his wand and then they started to dance around the store in a dance of their own.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw that McGonagall had woken up and had vanished her armchair. Her stare was now alternating between Harry, the pile of wands on the desk and the dance of magic in the air.

Then in a murmur so quiet, that Harry himself barely heard, he said:

"I think I've found my wand."

* * *

**So... what do you think Malfoy writes about - I'll give you a hint. This website and Malfoy have something in common. **

I hope you liked the chapter - I certainly loved writing it! Harry criticising and trying to figure out magical theory is simply hilarious to write. and omg this story is over 40k words long. This is the longest story I have ever written. I'm in the process of writing the next chapter... btw.

Ok. So. I have a question for y'all: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin? Which fits Harry best and in which House do you think Harry would flourish?

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Guest**: Thank you very much!

**Sarah**: Oh! I am definitively still writing it! And I will continue... I simply like it too much... although I have a feeling I'll have to re-write the first five chapters again. XD

**Guest 2: **Awawa thank you, that's very kind! I hope I'm not making Harry too much like Sherlock. I want their intelligence to be similar but their personalities different. Sherly is more subdued and Harry... well he's Harry.

**Diana A: **Thank you very much - I will update soon. I have already started writing the next chapter!

**00: **I will!

**Guest 3 (I think you're KK): **Hmm... Thank you for clearing up 'inductions' and 'deductions' - you just inspired me to write a small scene between Harry and Sherlock... aaaanyway, thanks. Actually... I never wrote out a plan for the story... I just sort of write next chapter without thinking what I am writing about. It seems to have worked out so far. XD Anyway thank you very much (again)!

Galleons, sickles and knut facts are all from the HP wikia and science stuff from wikipedia and my chem. teacher. The rest is mine.

Also, knowing how detail orientated some readers are, I decided to change Draco's character a little. I just sort of think that in the books he behaved waaaaay too much like an adult. Or a kid imitating his father. Therefore, in this story he's going to be his own man (cause I simply adore Draco) - 'sides, Draco is an 11 year old boy... You can't expect him to behave like this perfect, upper class pureblood prince.


	13. Chapter 12

**Thank you very much for reviewing, faving, reading and following! I will probably post the next chapter next week on Friday. If I finish it by then. Harry will be going to Hogwarts then. **

* * *

**One week after Minerva McGonagall takes Harry to Diagon Alley**

**16th August - two weeks before Harry goes to Hogwarts**

"Good afternoon, father," said Mycroft and Sherlock swivelled 'round to find that Mycroft was leaning against the doorframe. His gaze wasn't focused on Sherlock, however and was instead smiling somewhat coldly at their father.

Mr Siger Holmes was lounging on the large couch and was sipping some steamy, hot tea which Mrs Hudson had brought up earlier. The elderly man inclined his head in greeting and then waved a beckoning hand at Mycroft - evidently wanting him to come closer.

Sherlock pursed his lips, he didn't want Mycroft in his flat. Last time Mycroft had been in 221B - about a month ago - he had somehow managed to hide away several cameras. It had taken Sherlock and Harry a whole afternoon to find all of them. At least they _thought_ they had found all of them. Sherlock let his gaze casually sweep around the room, searching for any other possible hiding places.

Finding none, he turned back to his father.

"You were saying, father?"

Siger Holmes hesitated for a moment and regarded both of his sons quite seriously. "Mycroft, Sherlock," he paused and gathered his thoughts, "I am here on a very important matter," he stood up and placed his now empty tea-cup on the table between him and the two Holmes siblings.

Mycroft raised a quizzical eyebrow, "Mother's not dying, is she?"

Sherlock shot him a glare, "Mycroft, even you can deduce that it has something to do with Harry!"

Siger raised a placating hand. "Boys!" He exclaimed harshly but not unkindly. Mycroft shot his brother one last exasperated stare before turning to his father.

Said man rushed a hand through his hair, "Mycroft, I assume you already know about the wizarding world?" Said man nodded once and Sherlock suddenly saw a weary expression flash through his face, but it was gone as fast as it had come. "Well… about a year ago - when Harry and Sherlock first came to visit us, I told Sherlock that if one day, when Harry was eleven and he received a letter from a school called Hogwarts, he was to instantly write to me."

Mycroft had turned a little pale by now and Sherlock's theory was confirmed. Mycroft had known something about Harry about a year ago!

"But father! The wizarding world is classified as _top secret_. No one knows about it!" Mycroft wrinkled his nose and understanding crossed his face, "Unless you're part of it!" His tone was calm, but the emotions flickering through his usually quite cold eyes said otherwise.

Siger looked pleased at the fact that his sons had figured it out so quickly. "Correct my dear boy. I am not 'part of the wizarding world', per se. I was, until the age of eleven. See, magical children usually receive their acceptance letters at the age of eleven, squibs however, do not."

"Squibs?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Yes, Sherlock. Squibs. Squibs are magic-less children born to at least one wizarding parent. Both of my parents were wizards and so were their parents meaning that I am a pureblood squib. Mycroft has told me that McGonagall has already explained what a pureblood is."

Sherlock shot Mycroft another glare. So he _did_ have more cameras hidden in the flat. The British government, however, seemed to not see Sherlock as he continued staring at his father.

"As I was saying," Siger said loudly to attain Sherlock's attention once more, "Squibs are quite unusual and are often a product of lots of inbreeding between families. Unfortunately, many pureblood families are… disdainful of the non-magical - as was my family. At the age of eleven, I was sent to the best non-magical boarding school in England and was integrated into non-magical society.

"I had two children - both who turned out to be (unsurprisingly) non-magical. However. The magical gene is dominant and when you - Sherlock - had a child with Lily Evans (who I understand is a muggleborn), your child turned out to be a wizard."

Both brothers turned to each other in shock; both unbelieving that their father had kept this secret for so long and that they had not managed to find out about it.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "So that would make Harry a half-blood?"

Siger nodded once. "Now. You must bare with me for a little more, my dear boys. I have not told you everything: During the First World War, another, parallel wizarding war was being fought between the German wizard Gellert Grindelwald, his army and the rest of the magical population. At that time, my family - the pureblood, aristocratic Holmes family - was held in high regard for it's riches, political and magical power. I was the second son in the family. My elder brother Sherrinford, presumably inherited the Lordship when my father died.

"Unfortunately, he and his family were all murdered brutally by Grindelwald's followers, meaning that the title should have been automatically inherited to me. However, as I am not a wizard I was only able to inherit the muggle title - which Mycroft, you now hold. The wizarding Lordship has been dormant for many years now… but with Harry's appearance… Well, I daresay that the Holmes family might regain it's former status."

"So when Harry turns of age - he shall inherit the wizarding Lordship?" Mycroft questioned silently.

"Indeed."

Sherlock slowly descended into his armchair and steepled his fingers; he needed to think.

He wasn't allowed much time as Mycroft suddenly tapped his umbrella against the floor to call for attention. "Well," he looked decidedly nervous - not one of his usual attributes. "As we seem to have stepped into an episode of _Long Lost Family_, and have found Harry Potter, I feel the need to tell you about his true identity. Something I should have revealed to you some time ago."

Siger cocked his head to the side and his eyebrows climbed upwards in silent bemusement. Sherlock leaned back into his armchair and steepled his fingers and stared intently at Mycroft. No doubt the man was going to finally reveal what Sherlock himself had been puzzling over for the past year since he had found Harry. Frankly, it irritated Sherlock that he _still_ hadn't managed to properly figure it out. Obviously, Harry was of some significance to the wizarding world, but he hadn't managed to find out _why_, or _how_ significant he was.

Sherlock had certainly not missed the way McGonagall had been staring at Harry's forehead - in particular, his oddly shaped scar. At first he had thought it might be because she was intrigued by the scar. He had also gathered that she had been a good friend of the Potters, but during their brief conversation, Sherlock had also deduced that she was a brave (perhaps even a little too brave), trustworthy… and was interested in Harry in a way that one would be interested in a celebrity.

"Well, go on then," Siger said, waving his hand in a rapid moment. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor again - an action which usually only appeared when Mycroft became the proverbial Prometheus with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Thirteen years ago, when I was awarded my _minor position_ (Sherlock snorted and Mycroft shot him a glare) in the government, certain secrets about the wizarding world were revealed to me - it's existence being one of them." Sherlock felt satisfaction seep through him. He had theorised correctly - Mycroft had known about the wizarding world for a long time now.

"The wizarding world was in a state of war at that moment. There had been a coup at the Ministry of Magic and a Dark Wizard - Lord Voldemort - was terrorising the wizarding population, in particular the muggleborns."

Siger's eyebrows had climbed higher and higher during Mycroft's brief introduction to the topic he wanted to discuss about Harry. Evidently, Harry had something to do with the war. Sherlock glanced at his father with slightly narrowed eyes; apparently it was true that his father hadn't had any contact with the wizarding world since shortly after his eleventh birthday - he didn't seem to know about any of this.

"His followers were called Death-Eaters and they had no regard for human life. Their sole goal was to murder as many muggles, muggleborns and squibs as possible. The idea was that if they murdered enough of the Light, the Dark side - Dark Magic - would regain its former glory." He paused for a moment. "However, this all changed on Halloween 1981."

Sherlock suddenly felt a sense of foreboding wash over him. Somehow he knew that Harry was about to get introduced into the story.

"I do not know why, but the Dark Lord went after two babies, both born at the end of July. One was Neville Longbottom and the other was the son of Lily and James Potter - Harry Potter."

"He's _my_ son," Sherlock growled lowly and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Fine, _Sherlock's_ son."

"_Boys_," Siger shot them a warning glance. Although Sherlock's and Mycroft's relationship had gotten somewhat better since Harry's introduction into their lives, they still head-butted quite a lot.

"Lord Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to murder and torture Longbottom. He chose instead to go the Potter's alone and murder their child. He murdered Lily and James Potter and then tried to murder Harry Potter with an illegal spell called 'the Killing curse'. I have been told there is no way to shield oneself from this spell. Nevertheless, Harry survived the curse and then ended up killing Lord Voldemort too when the spell rebounded off him."

Mycroft swallowed heavily and gazed at the other two Holmes' evenly. "Since then, Harry has become somewhat of a celebrity in the wizarding world. He has become a beacon of light for them - a symbol of bravery and-"

"He was a year old, for God's sake!" Siger suddenly exclaimed, his face alight with indigence, "How can they expect a child to _lead_ and protect them all?!" he snarled. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sudden display of emotion.

Mycroft sighed impatiently as if he'd been expecting this reaction. "Father, intelligent or not (probably the latter) this is what the wizarding world believes. He is _worshipped_-"

"Is the curse the reason that Harry has that odd scar leaking with electromagnetic energy?" Sherlock asked suddenly, interrupting his brother in mid-sentence.

Mycroft considered the question for a moment before nodding once and Sherlock leaned further back into his armchair, lost in thought.

Harry, his dear, loved Harry, was a celebrity who had 'killed' a Dark Lord at the age of one. Sherlock swallowed nervously. He had allowed Harry to go to Hogwarts and now the boy was going into the lion's den. Sherlock couldn't go back on his word. Harry was going to Hogwarts, whether he liked it or not.

It bothered him that he wouldn't be able to protect Harry in Scotland. For the past year, his son had been living in a relatively sheltered environment and had enjoyed going to school under a pseudonym so as not to attract attention and remain in the shadows. He had a friend - Justin if he remembered correctly - but even so, Harry hadn't been around children much. He would go from living in a sheltered environment to living the life of a celebrity where every second person asked him to either marry them or to give them an autograph.

"…Of course, I shall have to take Harry to the wizarding bank to name him heir apparent to the Holmes Lordship and estate." Siger was saying, "And then when he comes of age (mind you, wizards come of age at seventeen) he shall be able to claim his birthright."

.

Harry startled awake when he heard voices downstairs in the living room. As far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't currently accepting clients. Ever since Harry had come back from his shopping trip with McGonagall, his father had kidnapped several books and had been pouring over them. They had yet to go to Diagon Alley together.

He rolled over in bed and dragged his duvet with him, then sitting up, he reached for the wand laying on the nightstand. He stroked it gently, marveling the tingling feeling that went up his arm. It was like the wand amplified his magic. Whenever he cast wandless magic, he felt that… _tingle_ travelling down his body - but never this strongly.

Harry was distracted as he heard the murmur downstairs increase. The deep rumbling of the voices led Harry to assume that the conversing people were in fact, men. Judging by the different tones, he assumed there were at least three of them. Frowning, Harry grabbed a large sweater and pulled it on. His father had bought him a dressing gown during the winter, but Harry didn't like it. It made his capability for movement slightly restricted.

Putting on his house shoes he crept downstairs, wincing slightly as the floorboard creaked. The murmurs, however, didn't stop and he concluded that his father either hadn't heard him or was a little too distracted to notice small details like that. If it was the latter then the situation wasn't good.

The door of the living room was cracked open and a beam of light shone into the dark stairwell. Harry leaned against the wall next to the open door, and inched closer to the crack so as to be able to hear what they were talking about.

And then he heard it all: his grandfather was a squib, Mycroft was important enough to the government that he'd been told about the wizarding world, there was a wizarding title that he was heir to (well… technically the goblins had already told him and he'd been looking for the correct moment to tell his father) and then Mycroft told his father about him being the Boy-Who-Lived.

Before Harry and McGonagall had travelled back to 221B, she had stopped him in the underground station nearest to the flat, and had told him a frankly very terrifying story. No, Harry corrected himself, it wasn't a story. This was history. And very recent one at that.

She had told him all about the Dark Lord Voldemort, Dumbledore's vigilante group, the murder of Lily and James Potter… and the fact that _he_ had murdered Voldemort when the Dark Lord had tried to kill him. Therefore, he was worshipped by most wizards and witches in Britain and incredibly famous. At that moment, it had suddenly struck Harry why Malfoy had seemed so surprised to hear that Harry was Harry Potter. In the shop, Harry had brushed it off, thinking that Malfoy probably knew about his father through quidditch. (Malfoy had after all, stated later on that he was an incredibly obsessive fan of the sport)

Anyhow, Harry had hidden his history books at the bottom of his trunk under several piles of robes so that his father wouldn't find them. If he found out that Harry was worshipped by the majority of the magical population and hated and hunted by the escaped Death Eaters, he wouldn't ever let Harry go.

But now, Mycroft had destroyed his plans. Harry let himself sink to the floor and he hugged his knees. His father would certainly not let him go to Hogwarts now. Not if he knew that there were people after him.

The door opened suddenly and Harry realised that he hadn't heard the footsteps approaching. He scolded himself; his father always told him to stay focused and not forget to pay attention to the things happening around him. Harry looked up warily and with narrowed eyes as the light suddenly blinded him.

"HARR-" His father had started bellowing but suddenly stopped when he saw Harry's form huddled up next to the door.

"Harry," he said, this time in a calmer tone. Harry smiled meekly. He knew what was going to happen now; he would be forbidden from going to Hogwarts. What a shame. He'd been looking forward to it.

"How long have you been sitting there?" the younger Holmes brother asked and Harry shrugged.

"I don't know. I heard pretty much everything… but I already-"

"You already knew?" Sherlock said silently and then in one swift movement, closed the door and sat down next to Harry. "Yes, Harry. You forget who I am. I knew that you were hiding something. I also coincidentally knew that you were hiding your history books at the bottom of your trunk."

Harry's expression grew enraged. "You went through my stuff!" He accused.

Sherlock stared at him disapprovingly, "They're called belongings - not stuff!" He disapproved of Harry's use of common English. Harry thought that he sometimes seemed to forget that he was an eleven-year-old.

"Still! You went through my stuff-_belongings_!" He exclaimed. His father rolled his eyes.

"My homeless network informed me that they saw you hide a textbook at the bottom of your trunk."

Harry harrumphed. "So you were spying on me," he said dryly. Sherlock gave him a 'duh' look.

"Well of course, Harry. You're my son. I have to keep you safe. I failed to do that during the first nine years of your life. I have to make it up to you now," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone, but Harry could see the emotions churning behind his usually unbreachable mask.

It wasn't often that his father voiced his emotions and concerns and every time it happened, well… Harry cherished those moments. Sherlock _wanted_ to be a sociopath, he didn't want to give people the ability to emotionally hurt him. Nevertheless, he had already spectacularly failed at completing that goal when he had met John.

Harry sighed and leaned back against the wall.

"And protecting me means that you will pull me out of Hogwarts," He said it so silently, he barely heard himself. Sherlock had keen hearing and he easily picked up Harry's words. A look of understanding crossed his face and he smiled gently - an expression which Harry also didn't often see on his face.

Harry felt an arm wrap itself around his shoulders and he allowed himself to lean back into his father's arms.

"Harry," he started and Harry closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear his father tell him that he wasn't going to Hogwarts. "You have been living with me for a little over a year and you have become part of my life. You help me with cases in a way that John never will be able to. Your proficiency at the art of deduction far surpasses my abilities from when I was your age." He paused for a moment to catch his breath and collect his thoughts, "And I will very much miss you when you go to Hogwarts."

Harry's head shot upwards and he hit Sherlock's chin in the process. His father winced slightly, but Harry didn't see his facial expression as suddenly he was hugging his father. He couldn't believe it! His father was letting him go. He was going to Hogwarts!

Giddily, Harry said, "You're the best dad ever… Thank you soooo much! I can't wait to tell grandfather!"

Harry jumped to his feet and rushed into the living room, missing the stunned and amused expression on Sherlock's face.

.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," John said, bouncing Emily on his hip as he stared into the Holmes vault. Sherlock was standing a few feet away with him and had a hand on Harry's shoulder. On Harry's right stood the Holmes patriarch.

They were currently in Gringotts - at least that was what John thought the name was - and had travelled down to a vault with a plaque reading 'HUS' nailed to the door. A roar echoed behind him, and John was suddenly reminded of the dragon which was chained to the other side of the large cavern. The… _goblin_… that had led them down to the vault was waving a small collection of bells at the dragon, trying to frighten it away. It seemed to do the trick, as the dragon instantly shrunk back and quieted down.

"Shall we?" said Siger Holmes in a very regal voice and gestured at the open vault. Gold glittered on every surface. Siger had turned to look back at John who smiled a little unsurely.

After all, it wasn't every day, that you found out that your nephew was a wizard, your best friend the son of a… _squib_?… and that there was a huge magical society hidden in Britain. It wasn't also every day, that you entered a predominantly magical shopping precinct.

They entered the vault and John almost automatically let out a gasp of surprise - this had been happening all day now. Gold, silver and copper coins covered every surface around them. At the back of the vault, was a long row of bookshelves and other artefacts. Knowing that the books would be the most interesting, John made his way to them. Emily giggled and started squirming. John was forced to put her down, but continued to hold on to her hand. After all, he didn't want her to get buried under a pile of gold.

The titles of the books were odd and there were a few he even recognised from the bookshop they had been in a few moments ago (Sherlock and Harry had spent several hours in there, sorting through the immense amount of books. Siger, John and Emily had wandered off after the first two hours, and had ended up visiting several different cafes in the district.). But then suddenly… he noticed that there was a section of one of the bookshelves dedicated purely to medicine. Books like; _Spells and charms: Healing_, _How to heal the hurt,_ _Healing charms_ by Gordon Humberbee.

With a raised eyebrow, John pulled out a book about the anatomy of the human body. He skimmed through the various chapters and his eyebrows rose higher and higher. It seemed that the wizarding world had an even better understanding about how the human body worked. Then again, they has magic on their side.

"Interesting isn't it? The wizarding world, I mean," said Siger in a conversational voice and John's head snapped up. He smiled a little awkwardly and pulled Emily into his arms again when she extended her little arms to him.

"Yes, I suppose. It's very... overwhelming, but Harry seems to be adapting well enough," John said slowly, gesturing at Harry who was playing around with a silver magical instrument. Siger smiled briefly.

"Yes, he seems to love this world very much. I did too - until I was cast off, that is." Siger said a little sadly. John smiled sympathetically. Just hours ago, he had walked into 221B Baker Street, only to find Mycroft, Siger, Sherlock and Harry conversing about the wizarding world. Everything had been explained to him. Mycroft had then made excuses and had gone back to the Diogenes Club, muttering about priorities and stopping wars around the world. When Mycroft had gone, Siger had invited John and Emily to come along with them to Diagon Alley - a wizarding shopping street in the middle of London.

"He's changed a lot in the past year." John said silently, still observing Harry. Siger smiled gently.

"Very much. He was quite… shy when I first met him. Sherlock has been a good father."

John laughed silently, "A year ago, I wouldn't have even dreamt of someone saying that. Ever!"

"Indeed," Siger said as the corners of his lips tilted upwards slightly, "he doesn't seem to be the father-type. But he _has_ done magnificently so far."

"Yeah. Sherlock's changed a lot. He isn't a heartless ba-" John looked down at Emily and cleared his throat, "Well... he isn't so terribly cold anymore. Don't get me wrong, Mr Holmes, I very much like your son, but he can be a little harsh sometimes." John paused and glanced at Siger who was staring at him with interest. "I mean I wonder what prompted him to change so dramatically."

Both adults were so immersed in their thoughts that they didn't hear Sherlock sneaking up behind them. And when Sherlock _did _loom up behind them, John jumped up in shock causing Siger to startle too and Emily to let out delighted laughter at their surprised faces.

Sherlock's smirk was wide and toothy, "Well, John. You know what I always say - after all you've asked me that so many times, you must know what the reason is by now." John rolled his eyes, shot Siger a smirk and started mouthing along to Sherlock's following sentence.

"How many times must I give you the answer to that question? It's elementary, _John, _I have a son."

Siger chuckled appreciatively at their exchange, obviously having never heard this repetitive catchphrase.

There was a short pause and all the three adults turned to stare at the boy that had become part of their family. Said boy had picked up an odd artefact which kept shooting black smoke out of a small pipe at the end. He giggled when the cloud of smoke transformed itself into a long, six foot snake which hovered in the air for a moment before dissipating.

"It'll be odd without Harry around here," John said finally. And indeed, he was going to miss him - as was Emily. He smiled down at his daughter. She worshipped Harry and the very ground he walked on. And while John thought that she was a little obsessive, he had to admit that Harry was incredible with her.

"Me miss Harry!" Emily cried out, finally catching on to what they were talking about. Siger chuckled and patted her forearm. Sherlock subconsciously nodded along.

"Indeed, Emily. We all will."

.

Harry's grandfather had gone back home a few days ago, leaving Harry and Sherlock alone at the flat. And while Harry had been sad to see him go, he understood that his grandfather also had his own responsibilities up in the north. Besides, he probably really wanted to see his wife.

And so on the 1st of September, Harry and Sherlock took a taxi to Kings Cross station (which was actually quite close to Baker Street).

People stared oddly at them as they walked into the station. Harry supposed it was partly due to his odd-looking trunk and the stack of books balancing precariously on the tip of it, threatening to fall at any moment. Then again, perhaps it was because some people recognised his father from the papers.

Harry reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the acceptance letter out. McGonagall had given him the ticket to the train before departing and Harry had instantly put it into the envelope so as not to lose it. And so now, Harry looked down at it, wondering how the wizards would be able to pull off a departure of so many wizarding children, without any non-magicals noticing.

"So. Platform nine and three quarters - have you ever seen a platform like that?" Harry asked his father who took the ticket from Harry and examined it. Without saying a word, he looked around the station and seemed to find what he was looking for because he smiled.

"This is the last deduction test you will have to complete before you leave for Hogwarts," Sherlock said with a toothy grin. Harry groaned (although he secretly liked these challenging tests. "Find the platform via deduction."

Harry sighed exasperatedly - of course… only his father would make it a deductive exercise.

They were currently standing between platforms nine and ten so technically, nine and three quarters should be somewhere between them. But there wasn't anything between them - just a wall of bricks. Frowning, he gazed around, trying to find someone else dressed in wizard clothes or carrying a trunk. Finding no one, Harry refocused on the task.

And as he swept his eyes around the general area around him, he suddenly noticed that the floor near the wall was quite worn - which was quite odd as not many people walked directly next to a wall. Blinking, he hesitantly walked towards it, knowing that his father was watching his every move.

Maybe this was like the wall leading to Diagon Alley? Maybe one also had to tap the wall in a specific way for the platform to reveal itself. From his spot, Harry couldn't see any indentations and slowly he reached out intending to feel the wall and see if he could feel the indentations rather than see them.

He was completely taken by surprise as his fingers disappeared through the wall. He jerked his hand back in surprise. The wall was an illusion!

Harry turned around to see what his father thought but instead saw that the man had left the trunk with Harry's things and was now walking in no definite direction. Harry blinked in surprise and then it suddenly clicked. There were probably muggle repellant charms on the wall! Grinning, he rushed to his father (who's confused expression instantly cleared up upon seeing Harry) and led him to the wall. And together, they walked through it.

The sensation was odd. Harry still wasn't really used to seeing magic like this. Yes, he had been using magic on a daily basis for the past year, but he could only levitate, move things, slow down fast moving things, sometimes control things like shoelaces and so on… but he couldn't create an illusion of a wall!

The platform mirrored the muggle ones and would have been exactly the same if not for magic. Magic saturated the very air, it swirled around them - much like it had in Ollivander's shop. A departure board hung from the ceiling and called out a warning every five minutes. It was quarter to eleven and the platform was already full.

Students dressed in colourful and mismatched muggle clothing milled about; searching for friends and parents. Many lugged heavy trunks behind them. Teary and proud parents were saying goodbye to their children, hugging and shaking their hands while the students stared around, hoping that their friends weren't looking.

And on the rails, waited a large, scarlet, magnificent steam train.

"Well, then shall we take your trunk to the baggage area?" his father's voice suddenly sliced like a knife through his thoughts. Harry blinked and stared at him - he looked unusually well composed. He had adapted surprisingly well to the wizarding world. Harry supposed that after all those cases that Sherlock had solved with John there was little else left that could surprise him.

"Yes, lets."

Harry had to push past several families tearfully saying goodbye to each other. Standing next to the baggage car, stood a crying, bushy haired girl. Clutched under her crossed arms was a large textbook. She was saying goodbye to an equally bushy haired mother (with perfectly white teeth) and a bookish looking father.

Turning away from them, Harry reached for his trunk, but his father stopped him with a smirk and hoisted the heavy trunk into the car.

"I'm not _that_ weak!" Harry cried indignantly. Sherlock smirked.

"I distinctly remember being a weakling at your age, and as you seem to have inherited my physique I assume you are the same."

Harry scoffed. "You do realise you just insulted yourself?"

He didn't hear his father's reply as a few moments later, he saw a peroxide-blond head pop up in the crowd. A head that could only belong to one Draco Malfoy.

"Oi! Malfoy!" Harry shouted over the rambunctious crowd and waved said boy over. The head turned and instantly that pointy face lit up with recognition.

"Potter, pleasure to see you again," He said shaking Harry's hand in that typical 'pretending to be an adult/my father way'. And then suddenly, a tall man and a shorter woman were standing behind Malfoy looking at Harry with appraising stares.

The man's features were pointy and angular and his blond hair was long and reached his shoulders. These features were reflected in Draco Malfoy and it was quite obvious that he was his son. The mother had the similar aristocratic features, but was a little darker in tone. Her hair was more of a dirty-blonde than the peroxide blond father and son possessed. She was dressed regally and her hair was tilted upwards with arrogance that Harry recognised in Draco Malfoy too.

"Father, this is Draco Malfoy. I met him in the Alley - I assume they are Mr and Mrs Malfoy."

"Indeed," said the elder Malfoy. He shook Harry's father's hand. Mr Malfoy eyed them with narrowed eyes. "I am Lucius Malfoy," he said self-importantly, "And this is my wife, Narcissa Malfoy. We are Draco's parents. I understand you are Harry Potter's guardian?"

Harry's father smiled thinly and he exchanged a discreet glance with Harry. This man was dangerous. He was politically powerful and rich. They would have to tread softly around him.

"Indeed. Harry Potter-Holmes is my _son_," Sherlock said in a deceptively calm and pleasant tone. Harry grinned inwardly, shame John wasn't here - he would probably laugh himself dead, then resurrect himself and write a blog about it.

"And I am Sherlock Holmes."

Lucius' eyes widened minutely and one eyebrow rose. "Of the _Pureblood_ Ancient and Noble House Holmes?" he questioned. Harry's father continued smiling pleasantly.

"Ah yes."

"I believe my memory is slipping with age," Narcissa Malfoy suddenly spoke up, "But I do believe I would remember a man such as you at Hogwarts." The brief attempt at manipulating Sherlock into giving answers wasn't lost on the Holmes' boys. Nevertheless, Sherlock answered.

"Ah no. I went to Eton - I never went to Hogwarts because I am not a wizard."

It was almost hilarious to watch how the Malfoys' countenances changed with that one short statement and Harry smirked.

The elder Malfoy suddenly looked betrayed and he was glancing at his hand as though it was covered with dirt. Narcissa had grabbed her husbands forearm as if to stabilise herself. Draco Malfoy was staring at them with a slight frown, but was otherwise unchanged.

"The Holmes family has been sullied with Muggle blood," Lucius Malfoy said with disdain as he looked down at them with an arrogant tilt of his head. Sherlock smirked and Harry suddenly felt a sense of foreboding wash over him. His father was about to insult him. Oooh… this was going to be good.

"Oh, I am so terribly sorry I sullied your perfect, slightly calloused hand," Sherlock said so earnestly Harry almost believed him. His father then clasped both of his hands around Lucius Malfoy's own right one in mock-apology. "I _do_ hope you can forgive me dear sir! It is not every day one encounters such a respectable person who is planning on a large donation to St Mungo's hospital! As an apology I will investigate your case for no fee!"

Lucius and Narcissa looked terribly lost. Harry was inwardly confused, while he had improved a lot during the last year, his father would still always be superior to him when it came to deductions. How had he deduced that the elder Malfoy was about to donate to St Mungo's hospital? And what did his father mean by 'case'? What case?

"Excuse me!" Lucius exclaimed and jerked his hand back. He was about to turn around and leave, when he stopped suddenly and turned back to Harry's father. "What do you mean - case? What case?" He demanded.

Sherlock smirked, "I'm a consulting detective," he paused for a moment when Lucius gave him a blank look, "Well it's obvious isn't it? Your wife is having an affair - I would assume that a proper husband would be bothered to find out with whom!" He exclaimed in a falsely innocent voice. Malfoy's jaw clenched tightly and he glanced at his wife. Her wide-eyed and slightly guilty expression was all the confirmation he needed. Clenching his teeth, he leaned closer to Sherlock.

"I don't know exactly who you are, and what you do. But rest assured, I _will_ find out and I _will destroy you._" With that, Malfoy spun around, dragging his pale wife along. He barked a short command to his son who instantly followed like an obedient dog.

Harry's father didn't look remotely concerned and Harry realised it probably had to do with the fact that Lucius probably didn't have much power in the muggle world and that the muggle government was literally Sherlock's brother.

Sherlock smirked at Harry who rolled his eyes.

"So; if you're finished showing off, I'll get on the train now." Said Harry, noting that the train would be departing in five minutes.

But then, suddenly, a lithe body engulfed him. Harry flinched in surprise, but smelling his father's familiar shampoo he relaxed into the hug. No words were needed. They would both miss each other. They didn't need to tell each other that. When Sherlock finally pulled back he kneeled down and placed both of his hands on Harry's forearms.

"What's the difference between deduction and induction?" He quizzed randomly. This was Sherlock's way of showing affection. Harry rolled his eyes at the very familiar question. He answered the equally familiar answer: "_Deduction_ is a form of logic that works from the general to the specific, drawing necessary conclusions from the premises. _Induction_ is a form of logic that works from the specific to the general, drawing probable conclusions from the premises." He recited.

Sherlock nodded approvingly and stood up. He patted Harry on the back. "Go now. Don't forget to feed Clyde."

The statement was so ridiculous coming from his father's mouth, that Harry was still chuckling when he got on the train. And then, as soon as he was on it, it started moving and when Harry turned around to say goodbye one last time, his father was gone.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed that chapter. Things are moving along much quicker now... Next chapter: The HOGWARTS TRAIN!**

**Thank you very much for your recommendations on what House Harry should go into. These are the results so far:**

**Slytherin: 17**

**Gryffindor: 3**

**Ravenclaw: A mind-blowing 27**

**Hufflepuff: 4**

_So, finally the title of the story is _in _the story. XD_

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Guest 1: **Thank you - hmm.. i think so too, but I still have to think about it a little more

**Talsbreath: **You make a good point! hm... I don't think he'll be in that house either.

**Sharon: **Thank you!

**Sarah: **Thank you very much!

**KK: **awawa thank you! I have a few possible plots now planned out... but I'm not exactly sure which one to choose. But yeah, I think this story won't end anytime soon. After all, this story is over 50k words now... and Harry _still _hasn't arrived at Hogwarts.

**Sandy: **hahah yup. That's what Draco does... Don't worry, you'll soon find out more about that!

**Guest 2: **Thank you for your vote!


	14. Chapter 13

**It has been almost two weeks now - Damn! Time _does _go by fast! Anyway, I've been busy with school, so I haven't had much time to write. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. Harry finally meets everyone - well, almost everyone!**

**Also, I have been trying to answer every review, but FF has been messing with me for the past few months so I apologise once more if you don't receive a reply from me. **

* * *

The train rounded a corner (a corner!) and suddenly the view of the platform was gone. Almost instantly, a huge barrage of people who had been staring out the windows to say their last goodbyes started moving to the hallways. Harry rolled his eyes at their eagerness - greediness - to get a compartment to themselves.

Wrinkling his nose, Harry shouldered his backpack which was filled with such a large variety of things that a normal person would think that someone had simply taken a random collection of ephemera and had thrown it in a bag. Harry however, didn't really mind what other people said. His collection of bottle caps was in his opinion incredibly important.

Harry stumbled as someone tried to push past him, and when he turned his eyes almost bugged out. The shock of light brown hair, bright blue, inquisitive eyes and arrogant tilt of his head were all very familiar features to Harry and the fact that he was seeing them here… was… well… a shock.

"Justin!" He cried out and the boy who had already started moving after he had fallen down turned harshly at his name and winced when he hit his head against an open compartment door. His blue yes widened and his jaw quite literally fell, revealing white and exceptionally brushed teeth.

"Harry!" He cried out and jumped to his feet, dragging a leather bag along with him. Justin was dressed in a t-shirt with a muggle band's name printed on the front, and long black slacks.

"What are you doing here!?" They both cried out at the exact same moment, staring at each other. An older student shoved past them muttering something about annoying muggles. They ignored her.

Justin and Harry opened their mouths at the same time to reply to each other's question, but Harry waved his hand at Justin, gesturing him to speak first.

"You didn't tell me that you were switching schools!" Justin accused. Harry blinked and realised suddenly that, indeed he had not. Then again, he hadn't felt the need - Justin had told him that he was leaving anyway.

"You told me that you were going up north!" Harry exclaimed and Justin just stared at him.

"What?"

"Up north implies that you were going to the north of England. Not _Scotland_-" Harry cut himself off, realising something very important.

"Oh my God!-"

"Not quite," Justin said dryly.

"You're a wizard!" Harry exclaimed as if he hadn't heard Justin speak.

"No shit!" Shouted an annoyed student from an open compartment near them. The compartment door slammed shut. Harry and Justin stared at each other for a long moment - then burst out laughing.

"I can't believe that your dad let you come!" Justin said silently as they started making their way down the corridor while they intermittently looked into compartments to see whether it was full or not.

Justin raised an arm to sling over Harry's shoulders, but stopped himself just in time, seemingly remembering Harry's weird haptophobia. ***1(A/N)**

"So how'd your parents take it?" Harry asked finally. Justin shrugged and sighed slightly exasperatedly.

"Mum was pretty excited that we now have a wizard in the family. Dad's not very pleased 'cause he says I won't have a normal - you know Muggle - education. He's making me take tutors in the summer."

Harry winced sympathetically. He had met Mr Finch Fletchley, and knew that he was a very strict and traditional parent. Finding out his son was a wizard would go against his very nature. Nevertheless, it seemed that he had let Justin come to Hogwarts.

Harry suddenly felt much better upon realising that Justin would be at Hogwarts with him.

"And yours? You did Sherlock take it?"

Harry chuckled and stopped walking for a moment. "Dad just accepted the fact that magic was real. Then my grandfather showed up and told my dad and Mycroft that he's a squib - non-magical people born to magical people - and then Mycroft told _them_ \- uh-" Harry paused. He didn't want to tell Justin about him being famous in the magical world. He didn't want his friend to treat him any different.

"Mycroft told them…?" Justin prompted. Harry smiled suddenly and shrugged.

"And Mycroft told them that he already knew about me being a wizard but had wanted me to lead a normal life so didn't tell me anything." It wasn't really a lie. He was just leaving out the rest of the truth.

Justin eyed him for a moment, then he nodded. He seemed to trust Harry's judgement. If Harry didn't want to tell him anything, then he didn't really need to know. Harry realised this and he smiled inwardly; with loyalty like that, Justin was destined for Hufflepuff.

"I was honestly so scared to see you before I went to Hogwarts, I thought you were going to deduce it all." Justin said, grinning. Harry scowled at the slightly hidden insult.

"You said _up north_! Not Scotland!" Harry exclaimed again and Justin waved a hand dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah. The great Harry Potter Holmes wasn't able to deduce that his friend was going to Hogwarts!" Justin said giddily as he turned around and knocked on the door of a compartment, which he then opened. Harry stared at his back for a few moments. Sure, it wasn't the first time that Justin referred to him as 'friend', but it warmed his heart nonetheless.

"Hello!" Justin said in an overly bright voice. Harry smirked. When he had met Justin, the other boy had been all stuck up and arrogant. He had matured a lot in one year. He had become a little more open.

Shaking his head from all stray thoughts, Harry looked into the compartment over Justin's shoulder.

Sitting there was a bushy-haired girl with a bookish looking face and buckteeth. She was already wearing her unmarked, black Hogwarts robes. Overeager, much? Sitting across her, was a slightly chubby boy, with shy eyes that kept flickering between the floor and the faces of the other people in the compartment. He was wearing mismatched muggle clothing - a tight pair of trousers which obviously fit on a much smaller child. He wore a pink t-shirt with a deerstalker and a catchphrase printed on it.

Harry almost burst out laughing at the text printed on there. It read; 'Sherlock lives'.

Justin saw at what he was smirking and let out a snort. The poor boy looked down at the ground obviously thinking that the newcomers were laughing at him.

"Oh! No, sorry! Longbottom - we weren't laughing at you!" Harry exclaimed, then looking at the girl, he smiled charmingly at her.

"May we sit here? Everywhere else seems full…"

She blinked at him for several moments. Isolated nerd then - couldn't comprehend the fact that someone wanted to talk to her. She scooted closer to the window and allowed Harry to sit down next to her; Justin sat across Harry.

"You see, the stuff printed on your shirt was pretty big a few years ago - all over the muggle news."

"Oh! Yes of course - Sherlock Holmes. He pretended that he had died and then dismantled Moriarty's criminal organisation. Two years later, he came back and started solving cases again!" The girl exclaimed and Harry grinned at Justin, sharing their inside joke. "I am such a fan! The way he solves cases…" She sighed happily while staring at the place above Harry's head. "I wish I could meet him!"

Harry's lips twitched. If she found out he was his son - she would go mental!

"H-How did you know my name's Longbottom?" The shy boy suddenly spoke up. All eyes turned to him, then the girl turned her interested gaze to Harry.

"Yes - how did you know?"

Harry squirmed under her stare.

"Uhm. His name is written on his trunk?" He said quickly, eyes glancing up at the trunk that Neville had dragged all the way to his compartment instead of leaving it in the trunk car.

He grabbed Justin's hand and dragged him out of the compartment and started rushing him down the hall.

"Harry? W-what?"

Harry grabbed the door handle to a compartment, shoved Justin in, and followed him seconds after. He slammed the door shut. They stood silently for a moment, panting slightly.

"Uh, yeah, sorry. She was giving me hungry looks like I was a juicy steak. I didn't want to reveal my skills in the art of deduction - she would make the connection."

"But how did you know his name? I mean, I looked at his trunk, but his name wasn't there. It just said NL and there's no way you would have been able to pick his name right. Especially not a name like _Longbottom_."

"He had his name sewed onto the back of his coat which was laying on the bench next to him. Surely you saw it?"

They both heard a sudden cough and both boys turned to the source only to find two slightly older, ginger twins huddled up next to the window. They stared at the two friends and the others stared back.

The status quo prevailed for several moments before the twin's faces broke out in wide, mischievous grins. Harry grinned back, instantly recognising a prankster's face when he saw one. He exchanged another grin with Justin and they both sat down across the twins.

"You met a Longbottom?" One of them questioned with a raised eyebrow. Harry nodded slowly, but it was Justin who answered.

"Uh yeah. Well, Harry says his name is Longbottom. I mean he deduced it. But this overeager girl was scaring the crap out of Harry."

"She wasn't _scaring_ me-"

The second twin chuckled and shook his head. "Mate, _women_ are scary. If you don't believe that, you haven't met our mother. Oi Forge, remember that time that we sent mum that toilet seat from Hogwarts-?"

Justin grinned appreciatively, "You've got guts mate," he said addressing… Forge, "If I did that to my parents…. Oh, they would go mental!"

The twins grinned again, "That's exactly why _we_ did it!"

"I'm Gred," said the one on the right and with a tiny mole above his eyebrow.

"And this is Forge." said the other, pointing at himself. Then they leaned forwards at the same time, eyes looking around conspiratorially.

"And we," they said at the same time before looking at each other, affronted.

"I always say it!" Gred exclaimed. Forge frowned.

"No, I do!" He replied.

"We can say it together," Gred said rolling his eyes.

"Fine."

They turned back to Harry and Justin who were staring at them with bewilderment.

"And we-" They said very dramatically, "Are _The_ _Weasley_ _Twins_."

"Pleasure to meet you," Justin said leaning forward and speaking in a conspiratorially, "I am Justin Finch-Fletchley. and this is my dear, dear friend Harry Potter-Holmes."

The twins's eyes narrowed and Gred frowned. Then they turned to each other and scowled. "Damn. We owe Jordan ten galleons."

Justin turned to Harry who shrugged.

"Jordan - our friend Jordan - bet that you would be on the train today. We were convinced that Dumbledore kidnapped you and sent you somewhere to train you or something."

"Why would Dumbledore want to do that? I mean he's the headmaster and Harry's just a student right?" Justin asked slowly, eyebrows furrowing.

The Weasley's exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Mate, that's Harry Potter-Holmes!" Fred said grinning. Harry was pleased that someone had finally said his name properly without prompting. Seeing the expectant gazes looking at him, Harry assumed that it was his turn to say something… Well… it was now or never.

"Uh, yeah, Justin. I'm sorta famous in the wizarding world. Uh. There was a magical incident or something when I was a kid and I supposedly killed a Dark Lord that was terrorising magical Britain at that time."

"Supposedly?" Justin said, eyes wide. Harry shrugged.

"Well… I am the only person who has survived the attack and I was a year old at the time. And there is no possible way I would have been able to tell anyone anything at that age. Therefore, the fact that everyone says that I killed a Dark Lord is essentially… gossip."

The Weasley twins started laughing loudly.

Their merry laughter was rudely interrupted someone knocked on the door and instantly, all the patrons of that compartment sobered up. The compartment door moved and revealed a head full of shocking peroxide blond.

"Malfoy!" Harry exclaimed somewhat happily. He had been dreading that that obsessed girl had come looking for him.

"Come! Sit!" Harry exclaimed gesturing at the spot next to Gred. Malfoy obliged and then upon seeing who was sitting next to him, physically recoiled.

"Weasleys," Draco Malfoy spat out in a way that wasn't very unlike what Lucius Malfoy had spoken to Sherlock Holmes mere minutes ago. Both Weasleys scowled deeply, completely and utterly mirroring Malfoy's feelings back to him.

"Malfoy." One of them said, hostility clear in his voice. Harry raised an eyebrow, and eyed the standoff with interest. The differences between them couldn't be more apparent. The Weasleys, while clean and well-taken care off, were dressed in slightly ratty robes that were a smidgen too snug. Their bags were worn and littered with holes. Their faces were happy, and open; full of emotions.

Draco Malfoy on the other hand, was cold and closed off. His pale, aristocratic face still had a lot of baby fat - as most eleven years old had - but it was evident that he would grow up to be aristocratic Lord that he was destined to be. His clothes were custom-made (that much was evident) and very well taken care off.

There was simply no reason why two families from such different social classes would have anything to do with each other - so why the animosity?

Harry eyed the three boys with interest, trying to figure it all out. However, before he could formulate any possible theory from the facts he had already deduced, Malfoy's steady, and very cold gaze rested upon him.

"Associating with the mudbloods and blood-traitors now, Potter?" Malfoy said suddenly. Both Weasley's levelled insulted and heated glares at him. Justin frowned, obviously realising that this was an insult of some kind.

Harry cleared his throat, wondering how he should tackle this problem. Evidently, Malfoy's loyalty to his father went very deep, and the fact that Sherlock had insulted the latter rather deeply, did not help the situation.

"I am sitting with Fred and George Weasley-"

"-We said Gred and Forge! How would you even know our proper names?!" Harry ignored the exclamation and went on.

"-And Justin Finch-Fletchley. The twins are nice and are good pranksters. Justin is a little snobby-"

"Hey!"

"But he's the best friend I could have wished for." Towards the end, his tone became increasingly colder, and the temperature in the compartment decreased dramatically. His tone was deceptively calm as he said the following words; "And don't you ever _dare_ call them some… derogatory term."

Malfoy looked suitably cowed for a moment before a familiar flash of anger whispered through his eyes and he jumped to his feet in anger. "Your father insulted my father!"

Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced at the others, who were staring at the two eleven year olds with wide eyes which kept going back and forth as if they were watching at tennis match.

"And your father insulted mine - no - he _threatened_ him." Harry's tone was still cold, but his eyes had softened somewhat in understanding and he sighed. "Look, Malfoy. You aren't your father, and you may try hard, but you will never be him. You are your own man, Draco."

"I haven't given you permission to call me by my first name," Malfoy said in a weak voice.

Harry rolled his eyes, "Fine. _Malfoy_. You're not terribly bad. I saw your true character ever so briefly back in the tailor's shop and I know you're not your father. You are not bloodthirsty, nor can you uphold that perfect aristocratic mask every single hour of the day. For God's sake Malfoy! You're a child! Enjoy it while you can!"

"Hear hear!" The Weasley twins said in unison.

"Now, _Malfoy_, let me introduce you to my _friends_. Properly," he paused and sent Malfoy a disarming smile. The blonde boy looked uncertainly at the other people in the compartment, but then finally, he sighed and nodded. Harry smiled inwardly. It seemed he was going to give it a shot - that was more than Harry had been expecting.

"These are George and Fred - oh, pardon me - Forge and Gred. They enjoy pranking their siblings - seven in all, I believe - and have a reputation at Hogwarts for being pranksters. They play quidditch as beaters and are quite fond of chocolate frogs."

Malfoy, George and Fred blinked at him in surprise. Justin sighed deeply as if this had occurred a lot already. Harry shrugged inwardly and chuckled - actually, it had.

"B-But how?! Wow. That's amazing! Imagine how much we could rile old Minnie up with that!" George said with a grin.

"Deduction," Justin said in a drawl. All eyes turned to him. Harry grinned proudly - apparently the boy _had_ learned something from him in the past year.

"But _how_ can you possibly know all that?" Malfoy exclaimed. Harry leaned back into the bench and chuckled.

"I saw their siblings on the platform, and I heard their mother saying their names and mentioning a 'Bill' and a 'Charlie' who I assumed are your brothers. Their mother was also pretty adamant about them… keeping in line while at Hogwarts and Fred and George have mentioned (and displayed) their pranking tendencies more than one time on this train ride. In fact - I'm pretty sure I saw a young red-headed boy earlier on covered in what looked like dirt. I assume you pranked him earlier - judging by the similar dirt under your fingernails-"

At that, every eye turned on the twins' fingernails and all the heads belonging to those eyes leaned closer to look at the small specks of dirt.

"Also, if you may have noticed-" Justin rolled his eyes at the tone of his voice which implied that Harry thought the exact opposite, "-the large calluses between the thumb and forefinger which shows that you both obviously often hold a sort of bat in your hands. The callouses neither resemble the ones one receives from cricket or baseball bats."

Malfoy, Fred and George stared at him. Finally Malfoy cleared his throat loudly.

"And the chocolate cards?" He questioned silently. Harry blinked - he had thought that would have been… well… obvious.

"Yeah - We don't collect chocolate cards!" Fred said with a frown. George blushed and reached into his pocket before pulling out a large stack of pentagon-shaped cards.

"Ah, yes - I assumed you collected them together…" Harry said wrinkling his nose and tapping his chin with his forefinger.

"But how did you know? They were in my pocket." George questioned silently. Harry shrugged.

"Lucky guess."

Harry's audience chuckled appreciatively, but their laughs were abruptly cut off when the compartment slammed open again. Harry groaned.

"For the love of God!"

"Not quite," Said a familiar, timid voice and Harry glanced at the intruders and almost groaned at the sight of curly-haired obsessive fangirl. To his delight, however, Neville was standing behind her, smiling timidly at his joke. Harry sent him a brief, encouraging grin.

"Neville's lost his toad." The bushy-haired girl said, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the patrons of the government. Harry pursed his lips to stop himself from chuckling - no doubt their mischievous expressions would set off a scholarly person like her.

"Oh, I _saw_ you earlier. Before you _ran_ from our compartment!" The girl said, eyes focusing on Harry and Justin who shifted uncomfortably.

Harry cleared his throat nervously and glanced at the twins who were grinning in realisation - evidently they had realised that Harry and Justin had been running from _her_.

"What's your name?" She said, her eyes narrowing. Harry flicked his head to the side, letting his hair fall over his very unusual scar.

"Bond," He paused, wiggling his eyebrows. Justin rolled his eyes, by now very used to the cliched introduction Harry always used when he told people 'who he was'. The girl's facial expression turned into a 'seriously?' frown.

"Ah. And I'm Moneypenny." She said without skipping a beat.

"Finally!" Harry exclaimed, "Finally! Someone gets my reference!"

Draco and Justin didn't look amused. After all, Harry had used that name the first time he had met both boys.

"So, Moneypenny. You said Neville's lost his toad?"

The boy behind her nodded meekly, realising that the question was also addressed to him. The girl, who had introduced herself mockingly as 'Moneypenny' nodded stiffly in affirmation.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she said self-importantly. Harry sighed. He knew her type. While intelligent, people like her were more book-smart rather than generally-intelligent. Their memory was usually exceptional. Harry hoped she would eventually outgrow it.

"No. Your name is Moneypenny. Now, old boy," he said now addressing Neville. "Shall we go to the prefect's compartment and ask one of them to cast some magic and possibly… _summon_ your toad?"

"Oh, God, I sound like I'm about to summon a demon," Harry murmured to himself. The other students in the compartment shot him odd looks. ***2(A/N)**

Harry swiftly stood up, brushed past Granger and gently pushed Neville in the right direction, leaving said girl in a compartment with a boy who hated her whole race and a couple of twins who did so many pranks that Granger was destined to hate them.

Oh the chaos that would ensue….

"So, Neville, I absolutely _love_ your t-shirt!" Harry said with a small chuckle. He _did_ in fact love the t-shirt. It said #SherlockLives on it. Suddenly Neville's face was dusted with a little pink and he ducked his head

"Thanks Harry," the boy said. Harry was a about to reply before his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Huh. I never introduced myself as Harry."

Neville gave him a shy, sly smile. "No you didn't. Your friend said your name just as you were leaving our original compartment."

Harry blinked. How had _he_ missed that? "Ah. Good job on spotting that."

It seemed that the boy he'd thought would be the least aware of his surroundings was in fact the most aware. "You're Harry Potter."

It was a statement, nothing else. There wasn't anything else. He didn't want an autograph, or a handshake. It was simply a statement. Harry stared at him for a moment before chuckling and nodding.

"Very good, Neville. How did you deduce that?"

"Deduce?"

"Yes, the act of observing and then drawing the most probable conclusions, no matter how strange."

"Hermione went into a rant about deduction… and a man called Sherlock Holmes… after you left."

"Ah." Harry paused in his musings, "So… how did you deduce that?"

"I know that Harry Potter was born a day after me and I just… thought that maybe… he'd be in the same year as me. I guess," he hesitated, but Harry gave him an encouraging look. "I thought that there can't be many Harrys in one year."

"Very sound, Neville. Very good…" Harry trailed off. "But make sure not to _guess_ your theories. Properly draw your own conclusions."

Neville's eyes narrowed in thought as he mulled things over.

"Ah, I believe we're here," Harry said, gesturing at the compartment nearest to the conductors cabin. There was a large 'P' attached to the door-handle. Harry knocked on the door.

Almost instantly a red-headed head popped out. His face was smattered with freckles and his robes were plain black, worn and had red and gold trimmings. A Prefect badge was pinned to the right side of his chest and on the left a Gryffindor insignia.

"Yes?" He said in a self-important way. Harry wondered whether this was another Weasley - the twins' brother. Harry jabbed Neville into the ribs, prompting him to speak.

"Uhm… I lost my toad." He fell silent, looking at his shoes and Harry sighed. Eventually, Neville would become the bravest of them all, but not yet. Not today.

"We wondered whether there's a spell to summon it-"

"Him." Neville interrupted quietly. Harry smiled.

"Him," Harry corrected himself.

"You're firsties?" The boy said, eyeing their unmarked robes. He looked about fifteen. Harry nodded in affirmation.

"Well. Look closely. You'll have to do this in a few years." The boy said, clearing his throat. He withdrew a wand and did a simple swishing movement. "_Accio_-" He interrupted himself mid-sentence.

"What's the name of your toad?"

"Uh, Trevor."

"_Accio_ Trevor!" The boy intoned. Harry and Neville stood there for a few minutes, staring around them in confusion. Had the prefect mispronounced the spell? Their doubts were destroyed as a few moments later, a large, dark green, sphere-like thing flew at them and-

Splat!

Harry was forced to hold back his laughter - the toad had landed in the middle of the red-head's proud face. Neville evidently didn't find it all that amusing. He had unlike Harry, instantly rushed forward and was now pealing the toad off a wailing Weasley.

"Trevor!" He exclaimed, hugging the struggling toad to his chest. "Thank you…" Neville trailed off, not knowing what the prefect's name was.

"Percy Weasley, Gryffindor House Prefect," The boy said proudly, while glaring at Neville's pet.

"Why did you get a toad anyway?" Percy Weasley said, nose upturned. Harry frowned slightly and glanced hesitantly at the blushing boy at his side, wondering whether the boy would answer for himself. Seeing Neville duck in embarrassment, he decided to defend his new friend.

"I happen to think that amphibians are a splendid pet to have. I happen to have a comatose reptile myself-" Seeing the confused glances he was receiving from the two boys, he elaborated, "I have a turtle. His name is Clyde. Anyway," Harry waved a hand in dismissal, "I do believe one shouldn't belittle other people's pets when one themselves owns a rodent."

"…Rodent? Clyde? What?" Said Percy blinking stupidly. "Wait, how do you know that I have a rat? Well had, Ron has him now."

Harry shot him a charming smile, "A magician's gotta keep his secrets!"

Neville gave him a blank look, evidently not understanding the muggle saying and Harry sighed exasperatedly. "Muggle upbringing right."

.

The narrow path had opened suddenly on to the edge of a great, black lake. The twinkling stars, and a full moon were reflected on the surface and when Harry turned his head upwards to look at the real thing, not the reflection, he found that something else had caught his attention.

Perched atop a high mountain on the other side of the lake, with windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

Harry stared open-mouthed at the structure. The castle looked as though it had been built in the Early Middle Ages, but it's style was more Gothic than anything else. It made Harry wonder, whether some turrets had been built later on. However, the beauty of the castle wasn't what made Harry gasp in disbelief.

The castle's utter disregard of gravitational physics was almost an insult to that entire branch of science.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid - the giant that had met them on Hogsmeade platform - called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry blinked as his attention was diverted to the water and he wrinkled his nose. His father had told him over and over again that he _always_ had to pay attention. And always had to make sure that he knew _exactly_ who and what was around him.

Sighing, Harry made his way to a boat furthest to the right. Malfoy followed him, and after hesitating for a moment, Justin and Neville both followed them. The latter were still a little wary of Malfoy and Harry couldn't exactly blame them. While Malfoy _had_ managed to refrain from calling anyone any names, his dirty looks still said a lot about what he thought about them.

"Everyone in?" Shouted the large man, who had claimed a boat for himself, "Right then - FORWARD!"

Almost like magic - no, not like - with magic, the fleet of little boats starting moving all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"I think I've lost Trevor again," Neville's whisper was quiet, but it was so quiet that everyone heard him. Some of their soon-to-be fellow students turned slightly in order to either roll their eyes or give him a puzzled look.

Granger (who was sitting in a boat with a couple of twins and a red-headed girl) shook her head in a condescending manner.

"_Again_, Longbottom?" Malfoy said scathingly and all of the venom that he had been holding back the whole train ride suddenly became evident in those two words.

"Oi, there's no need to be so bloody mean!" Exclaimed a voice from the other side of their small fleet.

Malfoy's head instantly turned as though he had heard a familiar voice. "Shut up Weasley. Your poor language isn't welcome in our conversation!" Malfoy shouted back. The patrons of the several boats between them, turned to look at Malfoy and then swivelled back to 'Weasley' as though watching a tennis match.

"How'd you know I'm a Weasley?" Shouted the redheaded boy. Harry couldn't see him very clearly in the dark, but it seemed the had red hair, and pale skin - much like his brothers Percy, George and Fred. The question was reasonable, and had Harry not known the other Weasleys, he wouldn't have been able to deduce that this boy was one of them. He turned to look at Malfoy, curious how the boy had deduced that.

"Well, there's no need to really ask what your name is, Weasel. (Weasley frowned at his nickname), red hair, hand-me-down-robe and with more brothers than your family can afford. You must be a _Weasley_."

The last sentence was said with so much contempt that even Harry recoiled.

Harry's frown deepened and he turned his almost perpetually serious stare at Malfoy. To be honest, he was disappointed. He had thought that Malfoy would be better than this. Hell, he _knew_ Malfoy was better than this. So far, Malfoy had been pretty mean to anyone who wasn't a pureblood and worshipped the old ways. It seemed thought, that Weasley was receiving extra-treatment.

A family feud, then?

"That's enough, Malfoy." He said, his tone serious. The blond boy turned to stare at him and after a brief staring match, he leaned back and seemed to acquiesce the demand.

"You tell him!" Said Weasley, grinning maliciously in triumph. Harry raised an eyebrow. It seemed the family feud went both ways.

"Weasley, please respect the fact that Malfoy has decided to withdraw. I don't care what sort of family feud is coming between you two, but I certainly know that I do not want to spend my next seven years at Hogwarts having to duck in hallways 'cause you two are duelling."

"Magic isn't allowed in the hallways. It's in the book _Hogwarts: a History_." Said Granger at the same time that Weasley and Malfoy exclaimed: "How did you know about the family feud?"

"Well… you just confirmed it, didn't you?" Harry said smirking and addressing both boys. Justin rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, merriment danced in his eyes.

"Okay, everyone, that's enough!" Hagrid said somewhat quietly. His deep rumble, however easily trumped the childish voices and everyone turned their wide eyes on him. He brushed his beard somewhat nervously at the attention. "Look 'ere, we're almost at Hogwarts. In fact - HEADS DOWN!"

It was so sudden, that some people almost didn't have time to react. They all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy which hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of under-ground harbour, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

"Oi, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them. Harry had almost forgotten, about Trevor.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Malfoy shook his head in disbelief, probably wondering why anyone would choose to own a toad.

The first years clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last on a smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door. Harry looked around at the other first years. There were about forty altogether.

This made Harry wonder. Hogwarts couldn't be the only wizarding school out there. What was the British wizarding population anyway?

"Moneypenny!" Harry exclaimed, turning his head rapidly in search for her; she would know the facts.

"My name's Hermione!" A voice exclaimed and Harry turned around, only to come face to face with a frowning Hermione Granger. Harry chuckled inwardly and jabbed his elbow into Justin's ribs.

"Look! There she is!" ***3(A/N)**

Justin rolled his eyes at Harry's antics.

"So, Mo-" Seeing her glare, he corrected himself. He supposed that following the twins' advice would be the right thing to do. Women were frightening. "Granger. I assume you've read everything about the wizarding world by now?"

She raised her eyebrows questioningly. Earlier, when Neville (and his toad) and Harry had come back to the compartment, Neville had grasped Granger's arm and had led her (presumably) back to their compartment. She still wasn't aware who Harry really was and was therefore a little hesitant to talk to him.

"Well… yes," she still seemed hesitant to admit it. Harry wondered whether that was because she had been bullied for her intelligence her whole life and was afraid that was what Harry would now do.

"Right then, I assume you know what the current population of the wizarding world is?"

She blinked in surprise, but the answer left her mouth like a bullet with it's arse on fire, "About 3.25 million in the world, and 30.5 thousand in Britain. Birth rates are at about 10.65/1000."

Harry cocked his head to the side, mulling that over. So Hogwarts couldn't be the only British wizarding school. As he had noticed before, there were about 40 students in his year and if that was an average amount of students per year, that meant that there couldn't be more than 300 students at Hogwarts.

So if there were about thirty thousand wizards in Britain, and if birth rates (per year) were at 10.65/1000, that meant that meant that there couldn't be more than about 300-400 new births every year.

Harry shuddered, that was a dangerously low amount.

Nevertheless, the fact still remained that Hogwarts was a large school - the size of the castle proved that - so other wizarding schools were probably smaller. So Hogwarts' yearly admission of students was only 12% of the overall amount of viable British wizarding students.

"So, are you going to tell us mortals what you've just figured out?" Asked Justin. Harry was about to reply when a voice startled him.

"I _remember_ you!" It had come from the other side of their small group. A small, but evenly proportioned boy was staring at him through a gap in the crowd. It parted when he started moving towards Harry who was frowning - trying to figure out whether he'd ever seen that boy.

Justin and Mafloy who were standing near Harry were glancing between the dark-skinned boy.

"I'm sorry. I think you'll have to refresh my memory," Harry said with a wince. He usually remembered everyone and everything to perfection.

"You're the boy who sat with this intimidating guy in our compartment!"

It was starting to come back. Harry had only ever been on two train rides in his life, the first one he had taken when he had gone to visit the rest of his relatives, and the second one had been the Hogwart's Express. He vaguely remembered playing the deduction game (on the train) with Sherlock.

"You're Dean Thomas!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, remembering how he and his father had deduced that fact from looking at the boy's gym bag. The other boy's eyes grew large. "Well… That's a weird coincidence!"

Thomas grinned, "Yeah, tell me about it. I only remembered you 'cause me mam and me spend the rest of the week on the look out for stalkers. The way you two were staring at us-" The boy gave a theatrical shudder. "-Wait. How did you know my name?"

Justin rolled his eyes again, "He plays this game with his father called 'deduction'."

"Like gobstones?" The young Weasley had joined the conversation.

"I don't think so, Weasley," Malfoy said with a small snarl. By now, he knew Harry well enough to know what deduction was.

"Wait - Like deduction and induction?" Granger had stepped in now, eyes wide and eager. Harry bit his lip, hopefully he could hide his name from her for a few days at least. He didn't want her to hound him, greedily asking him for facts about his father.

"Uh… yeah. My dad works for Scotland Yard so he's learned a few tricks for the job and he's been showing me some stuff." Well, _technically_, Sherlock _did_ work for Scotland Yard. As a freelancer of course. Uncle Lestrade even paid him sometimes.

"Does he really?!" Her eyes grew even wider, "Does he know Sherlock Holmes?"

Harry was saved from answering that question when Dean Thomas waved his hands in agitation. "So, what's the goal of the game? How do you play it?"

Harry shrugged. "You just observe other people and try to figure out stuff about them."

"That's a weird game," Weasley murmured. "I prefer chess."

Harry cocked his head to the side, "Then perhaps we can play together sometime?" Weasley examined him for a few moments, eyes narrowed, then slowly he nodded.

Hagrid returned before the first years could continue their conversation. He was closely followed by none other than professor Mcgonagall. Her eyes swept through the crowd of first years, assessing them. Her eyes lingered on Harry's for a moment longer and Harry caught an almost imperceptible upwards tilt of her lips.

"The firs'-years, professor McGonagall," said the large man.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide that she had just come through open and led the first years into the next room.

The Entrance Hall was so big that one could have fitted the whole 221 Block in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches like the one's at Gringotts, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right - the rest of the school must already be here - but professor McGonagall showed the first-years into a small but empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously - Harry more so than the others.

While he had generally recovered from the Dursely's torture, his fear of touch had never fully faded.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said McGonagall, "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room…"

She went on to explain all of the houses, their names, traits and the point system. Personally, Harry thought that it seemed as though someone _wanted_ a school rivalry.

"…I shall return when we are ready for you," said the transfiguration professor.

She left and suddenly, the nervousness in the room increased tenfold. The future students of Hogwarts were glancing at each other nervously, wondering how they would be sorted. Harry found himself curious. How _would_ they be sorted?

Evidently, each of the houses had its traits, but how did the professors sort students into different houses according to their traits when they didn't know the students in the first place? Was it something magical that sorted them?

Harry's thoughts were interrupted as several people let out blood-curling screams.

And when he saw the source of their fright, he gasped in wonder - as did most of the people around him. About twenty ghosts - for they were silvery and semi-transparent - had just streamed through the back wall. They were talking to each other - no - arguing.

"Forgive and forget, I say we ought to give him a second chance-" a little monk-like ghost was saying.

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost - I say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost, wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first-years.

"New students!" said the Friar, smiling around at them. Harry was too stunned to reply. If ghosts were real… what other _supernatural_ things were real?! And _how_ did ghosts - _dead people_ \- remain tethered to the living world? How was that even possible?

"About to be sorted, I suppose?" Said another ghost gruffly. This one was dressed in period clothes. A few of the pure-blood students nodded, evidently used to seeing ghosts - but perhaps not on a daily basis for they were also staring at them with wide eyes.

"Move along now," said McGonagall in a sharp voice as she entered the room once more, "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

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**I hope you liked the chapter.**

**In case you are interested about my change of penname: Leonhard Euler was a mathematician from the 18th century. He made important discoveries in fields as diverse as infinitesimal calculus and graph theory.**

**References:**

***1: haptophobia: fear of touch. This is a legitimate fear. I have it. **

***2: "summon a demon," reference to the show called 'Supernatural'**

***3: reference to the recent meme circling tumblr. You know, the one where someone is looking for someone and they shout something into a crowd. **

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**Jasmine: **Thank you for your review! And no, Harry isn't going to be friends with him. At best, they will be on ok terms.

**Guest 1: **Thank you!

**Guest 2: **Thank you as well! (also for your suggestion!)

**CAHawkins: **Yup I agree

**Guest 3: **hahah yeah. I think so too.

**Sharon T: **I hope the train ride lived up to your expectations! Thank you!

**M: **(Is that a reference to our favourite spy films? Omg, I'm such a nerd) Thank you! More is coming!

**KK: **Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it... Just don't stay up too late to read this ff XD You're right. Harry/logic/science don't really mix with Hogwarts that well... I'm going to enjoy writing scenes about that!

**Dragon**: Ultimately, I think that there is a bit of every house in everyone... SO I guess HPH could be in any house. although Ravenclaw/Slytherin _do _fit him best...

**Guest 4: **Well.. here's the new update!

**Fallow42: **Thank you!


	15. Chapter 14

**Hello! Sorry for long wait! I had a lot of end of term exams. Today is my first day of holidays! This chapter is a product of two weeks of hard work. It's not a lot, but I injured my hand a few days ago and I have to wear a cast for the next week or two. Typing is basically impossible cause i have to type with one hand. Nevertheless... Here you go! Enjoy!**

**BY THE WAY: IMPORTANT: DUE TO MY INJURY, I WILL BE ANSWERING REVIEWS SOMETIME WITHIN THE NEXT FEW DAYS. IT MIGHT TAKE A WHILE AS IT'S VERY HARD TO TYPE!**

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The small group - 40 students altogether - huddled together as it tailed McGonagall through the Entrance Hall. The anticipation and nervousness was thick in the air and somewhere to his left, Harry could hear Neville stuttering something to Hermione who listened with the patience of a person who had never had a friend and was eager to please any person who was remotely nice to her.

Harry himself felt the stirrings of excitement at the bottom of his belly. Suddenly, all his senses were more alert, and his mind was running at a double speed of the usual. Usually he only felt like this whenever he was working a case with his father. But now…

He didn't even manage to finish his though as the next moment, the doors to the Great Hall swung open.

It was magnificent.

Four long tables were arranged parallel to each other and stretched all the way to another slightly shorter one, that had been placed horizontally. This one had been placed upon a slightly raised platform and Harry squinted to make out the figures sitting there more clearly.

About a dozen - perhaps a few more - teachers, with varying age and beard length were smiling down at their students; some (a very thin, tiny wizard) were even grinning widely. On the edge of the table, sat the single sad and… frankly pissed off looking wizard. His hair was long (for Muggle standards anyway) and his had sunken in cheeks. Other than that, it was a little hard to see anything else.

And then there was Dumbledore.

There were some people who just couldn't be put in any single category. They either had too many attributes and could therefore be put into any category, or they were simply too… _peculiar_ to belong to a certain group.

Dumbledore (for it was obvious that this was the headmaster) was a tall man - even in his sitting position he was taller than the rest of the staff - and his snow-white beard disappeared under the table. Harry couldn't see much else from his position at the back of the group, but he could make out a _reflection_ of light underneath the man's eyes - half-moon glasses, then?

Biting his lip, Harry decided to mull over his deductions and observations some other time. He let his eyes wander around the room, and this time, he discovered that banners hung over each table. One green, with a snake on his left, a yellow one with a badger, then next to that, a blue one with an eagle, and finally, on his far right a scarlet one with a lion. Students from varying ages - and beard lengths too (some of the seventh years had started to grow small tufts of beard here and there) - sat at each of the tables, all with robes trimmed with the colour of their house.

The ceiling - if one could call it that - on top of them was vast and Harry could just barely see the outlines of it's end. Instead, what he saw, was a beautiful, cloudless sky, free of the light pollution that dominated London. Stars twinkled merrily down at them, and Harry soon found a smile stretching upon his face.

"It was enchanted by Rowena Ravenclaw, you know," Granger whispered to him. Some of the other first years leaned in slightly to hear recount of the legend. Harry decided to block her out as he had read exactly the same story in his text book - word for word.

Finally, the group tumbled down to a sudden stop, making a few of the people at the back (Harry included) stumble forwards in surprise. They were now standing at the very front of the hall and he could now make the teachers out a little better. Before he could start examining them all, he noticed that McGonagall had summoned a tattered, old hat (slightly dirty too) and a wooden stool. She placed both things on the raised platform, upon which stood the head table.

After a few moments of complete silence, Harry blinked, and looked around only to see that most of the students' gazes were fixed on that old, tattered hat. Harry could make out two identical red heads somewhere at the front of the Gryffindor table. And then… something extraordinary happened:

The hat started singing.

Something like a matchbox which when open, let out light was fascinating to a person with an organised mind such as Harry's or Sherlock's. Something like a literal elephant in the room was too. But this… this was… monumental.

A rip, near the brim of the hat had opened wide like a mouth - and then the hat began to sing:

_Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_ (and Harry certainly thought so)  
_But don't judge on what you see,  
__I'll eat myself if you can find  
__A smarter hat than me._ (Harry thought that was fairly probable. After all, it seemed that talking hats was odd even in the wizarding world.)  
_You can keep your bowlers black,  
__Your top hats sleek and tall,  
__For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
__And I can cap them all.  
__There's nothing hidden in your head  
__The Sorting Hat can't see,  
__So try me on and I will tell you  
__Where you ought to be.  
__You might belong in Gryffindor,  
__Where dwell the brave at heart,  
__Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
__Set Gryffindors apart;  
__You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
__Where they are just and loyal,  
__Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
__And unafraid of toil;  
__Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
__if you've a ready mind,  
__Where those of wit and learning,  
__Will always find their kind;  
__Or perhaps in Slytherin  
__You'll make your real friends,  
__Those cunning folks use any means  
__To achieve their ends.  
__So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
__And don't get in a flap!  
__You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
__For I'm a Thinking Cap!_

"We just have to try on the hat!" Exclaimed a voice in disbelief, which Harry mirrored but did not voice. It wasn't that he didn't want to touch something so dirty - God no, he'd had to rummage through rubbish bins enough times (evidence. Urgh. Weren't deductions enough?) - no, it wasn't that. He didn't want some unknown object to rummage through _his_ mind. His mind was _his_ alone and while people could damage him physically or even emotionally, his mind and his individual thought were eternal. (Until he died, of course.)

That brought him to another thought - how could the hat possibly think and sort? How was it possible? Alchemy and such had proven that it was impossible to create a life (Harry supposed this was true for the wizarding world too)… so how was this hat possible?

Professor McGonagall suddenly stepped forwards, carrying a thick scroll. "When I call your name, you will sit on the stool to be sorted," she paused briefly, "Abbott, Hannah!"

A thin, wiry, and very uncertain looking girl stumbled forwards. Her hair was mousy, but her eyes inquisitive and warm. She sat on the stool, staring back at the hall with trepidation. McGonagall let the hat fall upon her pigtails and for a few seconds nothing happened and then the small rip opened again and-

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Ok . That was interesting.

Several more names went by, and Harry paid enough attention to see Justin go to Hufflepuff (pff, his loyalty was enough proof of that), Hermione to Ravenclaw (well duh!), Neville went to Gryffindor and Draco (almost instantly) to Slytherin. This made Harry wonder, evidently the list was alphabetically listed but it seemed Harry's name had been skipped over. Either that, or they would be calling him out when they reached the 'Hs'.

A few other girls, and some boys were sorted evenly into all the houses and then finally…

"Potter, Harry," McGonagall called out.

Whispers broke out in the formerly quiet Hall. Harry, who had been quite sheltered for most of his life, felt sudden panic coming on. He liked a little bit of attention; anyone did… but never something so excessive as this. Besides, if he ever _did_ have any attention, he wanted to receive it for something he had achieved by himself… not something or someone he _supposedly_ defeated as a child.

Ahead, at the top table, Harry noticed that all eyes were now on him, with varying degrees of interest and reverence. The smallish wizard was openly gaping and had even decided to stand up on his stack of books. The man in the turban had narrowed his eyes and was staring down with a contemplative expression, next to him, the man with the greasy, black hair, was glaring at Harry with such a cold glare that it could have frozen the spitting fires of hell.

A plump teacher was smiling warmly at him - reminding Harry slightly of his grandmother, to _her_ right was an empty seat (presumably for McGonagall). In the centre sat a very attentive Dumbledore and then to the right sat another whole row of teachers.

Hesitantly, Harry made his way to the hat.

Once he had sat down on the rickety stool (which wobbled a little due to different leg length), he accepted the hat from McGonagall, and looking into her eyes with his almost perpetual serious look he said: "The name's Holmes. Not Potter."

Then with that, he dropped the ancient hat on his head (which covered his eyes) and he lost the view of the hall.

"_Well. This is interesting._" The voice inside his head was very deep and Harry could almost imagine a body to go along to it. _A voice or a name or anything similar says nothing about appearance, Harry!_ His fathers voice rang in his head and Harry pursed his lips. That was Sherlock's rule number-

"Y_es, yes, I know it's rule number 12.1 paragraph five._"

"How the hell do _you_ know? You're just a hat," Harry sai- err - thought to it.

It tutted. "_What do you think your father would say if he heard you speaking like that?!_"

"So you _do_ read people's minds, like you said in the song?" Harry mused. The hat snorted derisively sounding suspiciously like Sherlock whenever Anderson tried (and failed) to deduce something.

"_Harry, Harry, Harry, do remember what your father has taught you_." The hat replied in a condescending manner, sounding more and more like Sherlock by the second.

See. Observe. Analyse. Find possibilities. Disprove factually impossible possibilities. Form conclusion. Those words, which had been mercilessly drilled into his brain swam back to the forefront of his mind.

"_Oh dear, I do believe I shall have to help you, as you seem to have forgotten everything._"

Harry glowered at the darkness surrounding him.

"_Now my dear Harry, what have I said to you so far?_" Rumbled the darkness back to him.

"Um. Nothing I don't know, really…" Harry trailed off, thinking.

"_Go on._" The hat egged on. Harry wrinkled his nose in thought.

"Basically, you have been reading my mind this entire time, making me voice my thoughts. But technically, you already know what I'm going to say cause you've already seen it in my mind already."

"_Bravo, Harry_!"

"So what, you're a reflection?"

"_Oh ho ho! Precisely, my dear boy_!"

"A reflection of me then…?" Then it dawned on him. "Oh! _Oh_! You're simply a reflection. You reflect our - the first years' personalities back to us!"

"_So… what is the result_?"

"We sort ourselves!"

The sound of applause echoed in his mind and Harry smirked inwardly to himself.

"_Correct, Harry. So now that we've answered the question of who I am - see I knew you were going to ask that which further proves that I am simply Harry-Point-2, we can move on to your sorting_."

"I assume then, (that since you, the sorting hat, are just a reflection of a person's personality) that a first year doesn't necessarily sort himself into the house in which it belongs, but into the house that has values that they admire?"

"_Correct again, Harry_!"

"Hmm… What values do I appreciate then?"

"_Well, I am your version of the sorting hat; each person has their own - obviously because they have different personalities - you just have to see what my personality is like, and you'll see what you want to be like and what house is most fitting for you._"

"So you're arrogant and condescending and all-knowing. And I don't think I like you very much. Is that what I want to become? You seem more like a reflection of my father, you know."

"_You idolise the man, Harry. You want to be like him; it's understandable._"

Harry wrinkled his nose, this time in distaste. He didn't want to be like his father, in fact he didn't want to be like anyone, he wanted to be his own man.

"Fine. You strike me as intelligent. That's a Ravenclaw trait. I guess I fit in there."

"_By calling me intelligent, you're calling yourself intelligent meaning you're arrogant. Meaning I truly am a raw, and pure reflection of you-_"

"Just sort me already!"

_"Just because you don't like yourself doesn't mean you can shout at yourself!_" The hat exclaimed in a scandalised tone. "_Fine, fine! RAVENCLAW_!"

Almost that instant, the hat was taken off his head and it took Harry a few seconds to let his eyes get used to the light again. Standing up, Harry looked down at his robes just in time to see a Ravenclaw crest appear on his chest. Then looking up at McGonagall he saw surprise flashing in her eyes. It was quickly gone though.

Harry walked a little hesitantly to the Ravenclaw table, wondering if he had made the right choice. Would the Ravenclaws accept him; or would they talk about him, and to him as though he were an exotic animal? Or were the Ravenclaws more mature than that - he certainly hoped so.

Most of the Ravenclaw students were staring up at him, curiosity clear in their eyes. The younger students were sitting nearest to the top table and Harry suddenly felt even more hesitant than before. Younger students would be more prone to idealising him. Some of the older students still remembered about a life during the war.

Nevertheless, Harry didn't let his emotions show on his face, instead he strolled to the cheering Ravenclaw table. So far, the only other first year Ravenclaw students were Hermione Granger and Kevin Entwhistle. Hermione was staring at him with a slightly offended expression, as though he had insulted her.

"You never told me you are Harry Potter!" She exclaimed loudly and Harry barely managed to hear her over the clapping and cheering. A few people clapped him on his back muttering 'congratulations on joining the fine house'. A ghost (who's arms were linked with a tired and expressionless young female ghost) tipped his top hat to him. When everyone had finally settled down, and the sorting continued, he finally turned his attention to Hermione Granger; knowing that he would as some point he would have to face her.

Granger was still staring at him with wide, indignant eyes and Harry stared blankly back, "I didn't know I was obliged to tell everyone I meet who I am. _You_ seem to do that - does that mean you walk down Oxford Street hollering your name at everyone?"

Granger faltered for a moment, but the fire was soon back in her eyes and she harrumphed, "Of course not-"

"Well, glad we cleared that up," said Harry slightly sharply and he turned back to the sorting. Two sisters - twins - got separated. One went to Gryffindor, the other to Ravenclaw. She sat down next to Harry, gladly taking the hand he offered to her.

"Harry Potter-Holmes, pleasure to meet you!"

The girl giggled and introduced herself to the first years as Padma Patil.

"Wait, I thought your name was Potter - what's up with Holmes?" Kevin said after his gaze came back into focus (he had been staring into the distance for a while now). He had a strong North West English accent and Harry found himself missing the typical accent quiz he was put through every time he and Sherlock and he encountered someone with a strong accent.

"Ah, well there was a slight mix up. I was adopted by the Potter family therefore my name is Harry Potter. See my father is Sherlock Holmes-"

A loud screech drowned out the rest of his sentence and when he turned his attention to the source of the noise, he found two huge eyes surrounded with a bush of hair, staring at him.

"No!" She said with a gasp of disbelief. Harry blinked at her.

"Yes!" He said just as dramatically.

"No!" Granger once more gasped out in shock.

"Yes!" This time he said it a little bit louder and a few Hufflepuffs from the neighbouring table turned to look.

"_You're_ Harry Holmes?!"

"Well, technically I'm Harry Potter-Holmes, but yes," Harry said a little blandly. Granger gulped loudly.

"I can't believe it! I'm going to school with Sherlock Holmes' son!" She started muttering to herself, repeating the two sentences in a sort of mantra. Kevin and Harry exchanged a concerned glance and Harry decided that if she didn't snap out of it before the sorting was over, he was going to have to ask an older year to call a prefect.

"But your dad is one of us, right?" Said a blond boy sitting at the edge of the table. "I'm Anthony Goldstein by the way."

Harry's expression must have shown his confusion, because an Asian girl sitting to his right rolled her eyes and said, "Goldstein is one of those dumbass purebloods who think they're better than everyone else just cause they can prove they don't have muggle blood in their line."

"I'll have you know, I'm a tenth generation!" Said boy said, puffing out his chest. Harry snorted.

The asian girl eyed Harry critically, then finally seemed to see something she liked because she nodded approvingly, "I'm Su Li, that idiot over there is Michael Corner (we grew up together) and that's Lisa Turpin. We came in the same carriage."

"What, what does tenth generation mean?" Asked a dark haired boy to Harry's left, "I'm Terry Boot, by the way." There was a chorus of hellos and everyone else introduced themselves: A slightly chubby girl as Morag Mcdougal, a tall, long legged girl as Mandy Brocklehurs and one more muggle-born boy as Stephen Cornfoot.

"It's conservative pureblood protocol. You introduce yourself with the number of generations completely without muggle blood," Morag said silently.

"How very asinine!" exclaimed Harry loudly and snapped Hermione out of her mantra.

"What's asinine?" she asked.

"Introducing yourself with your pureblood generation grade," an Indian girl - Padma Patil - reiterated. "I personally think it's tradition."

"Well… if it's only used to assert a person's position of power on another person, then I'm afraid I can't concur," Harry stated after a moment. Su Li shot Harry an approving nod.

Anthony Goldstein's facial expression had been turning increasingly purple at the way the conversation had been progressing but just as his mouth opened to say something, a hush fell upon the hall and everyone turned to see what had happened.

Glancing around, Harry noted that the sorting had finished and that the stool and the had had disappeared. Dumbledore stood up. "The very best of evenings to you! Now… to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you…" He paused and smiled down at all of them, "But - before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."

A few people laughed, some at the Gryffindor table even clapped. The overall reaction at the Slytherin table was a dignified 'facepalm', at the Hufflepuff table, people were nodding politely as though Dumbledore had said something very reasonable. At the Ravenclaw table, people just shook their heads and turned their watering mouths and glazed-over eyes towards the food that had just appeared on the table.

And man was that food good! Harry eyed some of the greasy chicken with hesitation, wondering whether his heart would stop then and there, if he ate something with so much cholesterol, and instead turned to the vegetables. They seemed slightly healthier.

The meal went by quickly and was surprisingly very informative. Harry tried his very best not to let his deducing abilities take over his social skills (as was often the case with his father), and instead tried to socialise with the people he would be spending his next seven years. Besides, sometimes people's mouths revealed more information about who they were than a smudge on their trousers.

Granger kept trying to bombard him with questions and Harry kept having to turn away (after politely shutting her up) to speak to someone else. He wouldn't give her any attention till she realised that Hero-Worshipping him was going to get her nowhere. Also, till she realised he was just like any other eleven-year-old (with a bit more brain power).

Finally, a hush came over the hall, as Dumbledore once more stood up.

"Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you: First-years should note that the Forbidden Forest is forbidden for all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's gaze gravitated to the middle section of the Gryffindor table, but instead of looking stern, his eyes twinkled merrily. Harry raised an eyebrow, biased much?

"I have also been asked by the caretaker - Mr Filch - to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held on the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for one of the school houses should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third floor corridor on the right hand side is out of bounds to anyone who doesn't wish to die a horrible and painful death." Dumbledore's dramatic statement had the effect it was probably supposed to have. Most of the students in the hall shivered collectively, and only very few students chuckled in amusement. They quickly quieted down when they saw that their friends weren't laughing with them.

Harry raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Su Li. What sort of school had an 'out-of-bounds-corridor-where-you-could-die-a-painful-death'? Harry wondered whether it was even legal. And anyway, why would Dumbledore even tell the school. If he really didn't want anyone to go there, he wouldn't even mention it and instead set up a ward or something. Harry bit his lip. Evidently, Dumbledore wanted that someone went to the third floor corridor and checked it out. But… _why_? What was the point?

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!"

The song that followed was so terribly grating on Harry's refined ears that towards the end he almost covered his ears. But according to John, such acts in front of a large audience could lead to them being insulted. He was used to the fine sounds and tunes of a violin or of an internationally renown jazz or classical orchestra…

"Ah! Music," Dumbledore theatrically wiped an imaginary tear of his his cheek, "Magic beyond all we do here! Now, off you trot! Goodnight!"

The Ravenclaws hung behind for a moment, watching as the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs elbowed their way through the doors. A few Slytherins were smirking to each other, only leaning over to each other to let a snide comment loose. Harry was vaguely reminded of Mycroft. Finally, once over half the hall had gone to their respective houses, the Ravenclaws collectively stood up.

The Ravenclaw first years were called to the side by fifteen or sixteen year-old boy. "Hello all!" He exclaimed loudly, once they had separated themselves from the mass of students and had moved to the slightly quieter area near the grand staircase. "Gather 'round, gather 'round!" He said happily, awkwardly waving his hands.

"My name is Edward Carmichael but everyone calls me Eddie. Right. I'm the fifth year prefect. My partner, Samantha is taking care of another task, so I'm stuck to you lot." He chuckled to himself and the first years exchanged nervous glances.

"Well! Shall we?"

And so, the entourage of first year Ravenclaws stumbled down the brightly lit hallways of hogwarts, and eventually, after seven flights of stairs, found their way to a stone wall. A dead end. But strangely, a door knocker (in the shape of an eagle's head) had been attached to the wall at eye level.

"Everyone, look closely!" Eddie said excitedly and knocked on the wall a few times, using the door knocker. Instantly, the bird's bronze eyes came to life, and in a very mechanical, female voice, the eagle asked: "When does a river flow right and when left?"

The first years exchanged an impressed glance, and Harry had to nod along with them. It was ingenious. Sometimes, riddles could be better passwords than most words.

"Good! Does anyone have an idea?" Eddie asked and the first years exchanged thoughtful glances.

"When the currents change?" Michael Corner said loudly. The knocker shook its head regretfully and Harry had to stop himself from running up to it to stare at it intently. His father would go mad with the things that could be examined in this castle! The fact that a _knocker_ could come to life and _shake its head_ was simply amazing!

"Good reasoning, but wrong I'm afraid."

"What happens if you don't know the answer to a riddle?" Harry asked after a short silence. Eddie winced.

"Well you just have to wait until someone comes along and solves the riddle for you. Or you can go to Flitwick's - our head of house - office."

"That seems a little time-consuming," Granger said, frowning. Harry nodded along, agreeing completely.

Eddie shrugged, "It's the system."

"-Oh! I've got it!" Kevin exclaimed after a moment.

"Go on then!" Eddie said happily, eyes twinkling.

"So say you're facing a river and it's flowing to the right when you turn around that becomes left!"

"Right you are!" The door knocker exclaimed and the wall melted away.

"Well done!"

Kevin blushed.

The room that was revealed was wonderful and weirdly reminded Harry of 221B Baker Street. The Ravenclaw common room was wide and circular. It had graceful arched windows, and on the walls hung blue and bronze silk curtains. The domed ceiling were painted with stars, which were echoed in the midnight-blue carpet. Tables, chairs, and bookcases covered the expanse of the floor, and a white-marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw stood next to the door that lead to what Harry assumed were the dormitories above.

Bookshelves covered every single wall, creating a very studious and homey atmosphere. Three lit fireplaces warmed the room up and surrounding those fireplaces were large plush armchairs and sofas. The room was cluttered with different magical and non-magical artefacts. Somewhere, from a distance, over the sound of several dozen of voices, he could hear old music from the 50s-60s. Harry loved it instantly.

"Welcome, firsties to the Ravenclaw common room!" Eddie exclaimed grinning as he took in all of their amazed expressions. Harry noted that Eddie would/could make a good teacher in the future.

The common room was full with students with varying ages and very few heads turned to look at the small group of unassuming first years as they went around the common room while Eddie showed them this or that. Finally they reached the middle of the room.

"Well, that's the end of our tour. Up the stairs through the archway on the right are the dormitories for the boys, and on the left for girls. Goodnight and have fun on your first day tomorrow!"

* * *

**I hope you liked that chapter as much as I loved writing it. **

**Thank you for reading and sorry again for the long wait!**

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**EZ: **Thank you! And yes!

**Guest 1: **Thank you very much!

**M: **Love da nickname. Anyway, thank you!

**Chris: **You inspired the scene in this chapter. SO thank you!

**Guest 2: **Yes! She finally found out who he is!

**KK: **OMG THANK YOU FOR THAT IDEA. YOU SIR/MA'AM ARE A GENIUS

**SmashHero59win:** hahaha Weasley bashing is so terribly fun!

**Danielle: **Gladly!

**TheSymbolOfFaith: **thank you very much! I hope you find the sorting satisfactory!

**mariapotter: **Ohhhhh! That's bound to be an explosive conversation!

**Guest 3: **Thank you very much!

**Phi: **Yes! He's in Ravenclaw!

**Guest 4: **Awww thank you!

**Moi: **hmm... I honestly thought of putting him in hufflepuff but decided against it... but who knows; I might end up writing a Harry!Hufflepuff sometime in the future!


	16. Chapter 15

**I apologise for the long delay. I have had this chapter for a while now, but only found it in me to finish writing it today. Well that and my hand still hurts when I type. Nevertheless, thank you very much to those who wished me well! **

**Have you seen the Sherlock special? What did you think about it? Absolutely amazing? I thought it was simply genius. Feminism is also finally properly represented!**

**Also, I would like to dedicate this chapter to the wonderful Alan Rickman. He was not only an excellent chapter but from what I've heard also a remarkable man. His impeccable, yet very humane acting is the reason why he is and forever will be one of my idols. Like most Harry Potter fans, I first saw him in Harry Potter and found that he filled my expectations beautifully (Severus Snape is my favourite character in the books). He has however since then enchanted me in many other movies/theatre productions (such as Alice in Wonderland, Kill Bill, HP, Love actually, Shakespeare company, Sense and Sensibility, etc.) I think it is safe to say that he will be missed sorely by those who knew him personally and by us the fans, who could only ever see him through a distance from the telly. May he rest in peace. **

* * *

Harry had been conditioned over time to sleep shallowly and wake up very rapidly. His father had been fond of setting up surprise tests at random moments during the night, and Harry had eventually become used to it. Nevertheless, he almost overheard the quiet sound of the morning bell, signifying that breakfast was open.

The prefect - Eddie - had briefed them on the way to the common room. Apparently the bell rang at the beginning of every meal, and at the beginning and end of every class (except astronomy as that was late at night).

Eventually Stephen Cornfoot - a shy, small boy who had been to afraid to introduce himself at the feast - woke him up. The common room was relatively empty when they - Harry, Stephen and Kevin left for breakfast. On the way, they were also joined by Hermione (who had been admiring the paintings on the way) and Ron Weasley, who came from the Gryffindor tower also (apparently) on the seventh floor.

"So, what does the Gryffindor common room look like, Ron?" The red-headed boy looked surprised that someone had asked him something - that someone was interested in him. His head jerked up very suddenly, and Stephen, Harry, Kevin and Hermione winced when they heard a loud cracking sound. Ron winced too and started massaging his neck.

"It's wicked." Ron said, eyes brighting up as his eyes looked into the distance. Harry grinned.

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's decorated in scarlet and gold and there are lots of fireplaces and paintings and posters of quidditch stars. We even have a chess set!"

Harry nodded approvingly. It seemed that all of the Hogwarts houses were set up in a way that most appealed to its residents.

They descended the next few floors in utter silence and in the Entrance Hall, they were joined by two more students - Justin and Neville.

"I knew it!" Justin said happily, slapping Harry on the back. "I knew you'd make it into Ravenclaw!" Then his eyes shot past Harry and to Ron. Grinning he extended his hand. "Pay up Weasley."

"You bet on the house Harry was going to be sorted into?" Hermione exclaimed incredulously.

"You bet!" Justin replied happily. Weasley grumbled a bit, but passed Justin a few silver sickles.

"Ok. Should I introduce everyone?" Harry glanced at the students surrounding him. "Ok. That's Stephen Cornfoot. He woke me up this morning so kudos to him. Hm.. That's Kevin Entwhistle. Ron Weasley over there. Justin Finch-Fletchley - he's been my best mate for a few years now and Neville Longbottom. Oh, and that's Hermione Granger."

Everyone nodded in greeting to each other.

"So, shall we?" Justin asked, gesturing eagerly to the Great Hall.

"Breakfaaaast!" Ron Weasley exclaimed loudly and a few students who had started trickling into the Entrance Hall turned to him and stared. Ron blushed. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Stop thinking with your stomach Weasley! It seems to be hungry quite a lot! God knows you can't afford that habit!" Came the upper class accented drawl of Draco Malfoy. He had just climbed the steps into the Entrance Hall from the dungeons and was strutting towards the group of first-years. He was followed by two large (slightly stupefied-looking) boys - Crabbe and Goyle.

"Morning Malfoy! Now, what have I told you about insulting Ron?" Harry exclaimed as he strode forwards to meet the blond-haired boy. Then swinging around, Harry turned to Ron just as the boy was opening his mouth to deliver an insult. "Same goes for you Ronnie!"

Both boys just glared at each other.

"Let's go." Kevin muttered to Stephen. Evidently, they didn't like the tension that was slowly but steadily growing. Stephen nodded once and the duo sped into the open doors of the Great Hall. Harry sniffed the air. He could already smell the mouth-watering scent of breakfast.

"Harry. It's useless. Malfoy is… Malfoy. You saw him at the train. He won't change." Granger whispered to him. Harry gave her a critical stare.

"People's personalities don't change. Yeah you're right. But they can change their opinions, you know. That's called growing up," then turning his attention to Malfoy, he smiled. "Would you like to join Neville, Hermione, Justin, Ron and myself at the Ravenclaw table for some breakfast?"

"But you can't sit at other house tables!" Granger exclaimed.

"Is there a rulebook? Huh. I didn't know. I should've bought it to know what rules to break." Everyone turned to Justin after his absentminded remark. Weasley started chuckling and he slung an arm over his shoulders.

"I think you and I are going to understand each other very well!" said the red-headed boy.

"Well, Granger? Is there a rule stating that?" Malfoy asked. Harry nodded with approval, after noticing that the usual malice had receded somewhat.

"Well… no. I don't think so…" Hermione looked a tad lost as she tapped her finger against her lips. Harry sighed. They would really have to do something against her obsession with authority.

"Well, then! Excellent! Shall we?" Neville exclaimed suddenly and quite forcefully. His voice was a pitch higher than usual, betraying his calm exterior.

All heads turned to him and then finally, Malfoy started nodding. "Good. Let's go then."

The mismatched group of two Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs, one Gryffindor and a Slytherin garnered a lot of attention and soon, the volume of conversation in the hall dipped as everyone started gossiping in hushed tones, as opposed to the usual cheery sounds of people conversing.

Most of the Slytherins and Ravenclaws had already arrived at breakfast, but the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables were mostly empty. Nevertheless, the group of six sat down at the Ravenclaw table, seeing as both the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables were out of question (Harry didn't want his first morning at breakfast to be destroyed by him having to separate a Slytherin and a Gryffindor).

"So Potter-"

"It's Potter-Holmes, thank you very much."

"Yeah, whatever Potter." Said Su Li with a wink as the company sat down. Harry rolled his eyes. She continued: "What do you make of Dumbledore's words from last night?"

A few second and third Ravenclaws were leaning a little in their direction to hear Harry's answer and he shrugged, "I confess, I didn't give it much thought. Hermione any ideas?"

The bushy haired girl blushed and bit her lip, unsure and she shook her head. Malfoy sniggered and Ron flushed angrily at that. "Oi, Malfoy, figure it out yourself and then you can laugh at us peasants."

Justin rolled his eyes, "Can't you two just get along?! At least pretend to - for Harry's sake. Here, look, I bet you two galleons can't manage to get through the week without sniping at each other."

Malfoy and Weasley eyed each other, sizing the other up.

"Deal." Malfoy said in a snotty, annoyed voice. Ron echoed his words seconds later.

"Ok. Good. Now that you've sorted that out - does anyone have any idea as to what the words might mean?" Su Li finally said.

"Have you looked in a dictionary?" Neville asked suddenly, blushing when most of the Ravenclaw's in the vicinity turned to stare at him with 'fuck, I'm an idiot' expressions. Two Ravenclaws pulled out dictionaries and started leafing through them.

"Ok, so 'Nitwit' is - apparently - a derogatory term for a silly or foolish person." Said the slightly older Ravenclaw, he paused and leafed through the dictionary, "And 'Oddment' means a leftover piece of cloth. I hope you know the meaning of Blubber and Tweak. If not, I dearly wish you luck on your potions exams - Snape is a Grammar and Spelling Nazi." With that the Ravenclaw turned away.

The was a momentary pause in which everyone contemplated the information. Harry's mind was racing at the speed it usually sped when he was working a particularly complicated case with his father.

"Ah! Got it!" He exclaimed after he had finished munching on his toast.

Malfoy sighed, irritated that he hadn't managed to figure it out. He scoffed and said in a very posh voice which sounded like he was imitating his father: "Pray, do tell, Potter."

"For the love of God- it's Potter-Holmes!"

"Yeah, whatever." Everyone said at exactly the same time. They chuckled and finally, Su Li hit him on the head with a muggle notebook.

"Out with it! Potter-Holmes."

"Basically, Dumbledore basically made a jab at every house. I suppose it's a warning too. As you may have noticed, we have four houses in this school, and he said four words - one for each corresponding house. What I believe Dumbledore was doing was giving each house a warning not to judge it's new students too harshly. With each word, he pointed out the 'odd' people from each house who didn't seem to really 'fit' into said house.

"First we have Nitwit: Nitwit, as we have just learned from my housemate is a derogatory term meaning foolish or stupid. This points out the 'odd' one out from the Ravenclaw house and simultaneously warns the Ravenclaws that being foolish or stupid doesn't matter, it's the values - in this case knowledge - that matter.

Secondly, we have Blubber: Now, I don't know if this is used in magical Britain too, but in muggle schools this is another derogatory term used to insult chubby children. I think this one is a jab at the Gryffindor house. From what I have understood, the Gryffindors are the popular ones. The athletic house-" A few other third and fourth year Ravenclaws had turned to the mismatched group of people to listen to Harry's explanation and many were nodding along.

Thirdly, we have Oddment: Oddment is - as my housemate has so kindly informed us - a term for a leftover piece of cloth. I think this refers to those who do not fit in Slytherin. From what I understand, most Slytherins are purebloods and value 'wholeness' and 'integrity', meaning that the odd one in this house is the 'muggleborn'. So again, this is a warning telling the Slytherin house that just because someone is a muggleborn that doesn't mean that they aren't a Slytherin. Remember, there are many other attributes to the Slytherin house.

Fourthly, and lastly we have Tweak: Tweak means, as I am sure you are aware, a fine adjustment to a mechanism or system. People are often prejudiced against the Hufflepuff house - and many people seem to suggest that this is the house for those who do not fit into the other houses. Personally I believe that this is a house for a select few people who value loyalty and kindness. The warning to this house is not to try to 'tweak' yourself too much to be accepted by the other houses, because at the end of the day, the Hufflepuffs are the most honest and loyal people."

There was a long silence.

Then a few of the surrounding people started to clap and cheer, and the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs who had started to trickle in in larger numbers turned to stare, amazed that the usually very composed Ravenclaws were showing so much exuberance.

"Damn, Potter." Malfoy said after a moment.

"Exactly my sentiments, Malfoy." Ron said after a moment and everyone turned to stare at them.

"What?!" They exclaimed.

"You just agreed on something." Hermione said with a raised eyebrow and Justin snickered. His eyes unfocused and Harry could almost imagine him imagining the galleons in his hands.

"We did not!" The blond and redheaded boys exclaimed indignantly.

"You just agreed on something again." Neville pointed out and everyone chuckled. Harry laughed along, suddenly feeling very relaxed. Suddenly, he had the feeling that he was going to have an excellent year.

.

"Hey Neville? A hand?!" Harry almost cried out as a tentacle of of a plant wound itself around his wrist.

"Shit!" Neville exclaimed.

"Shit what? What do you mean by shit? Neville! Tell me!"

Neville bit his lip. " That's a Strangulare Flora. They uhm… they sense prey and tighten their tentacles around it's body parts and tighten so long till they fall off."

"I would call that awesome if not for the fact that it is my hand which is currently being chopped off!"

"Mister Potter! What do you think you are doing?! You are supposed to be replanting your Mimbus Mimbeltonia!"

"Uhm. Professor Sprout, I think a Flora strangulare decided to chop off his hand." Neville said, trying very hard not to crack a grin. By now, a good part of the class had stopped doing what they were supposed to be doing and were instead staring at Neville and Harry.

"Five points from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff for venturing so closely to a plant." Sprout said sternly and with a wave of her wand, the tentacle suddenly decided to loosen up. Harry jerked his hand back and started massaging it.

"Now get back to work. That goes for everyone!" Sprout gave them one last glare and sped off.

"Dad was excited when he heard we had a herbology class. I think partly cause he wanted someone to give him tips to help grow his tobacco plant." Harry mumbled absentmindedly to himself. Neville looked at him uncertainly, as though not really sure whether Harry was telling the truth.

"Well it's not that hard… My uncle grows them - tobacco plants, that is - as a hobby. Grandmother doesn't approve. She says that if we were muggles we'd be arrested."

"I suppose it is illegal…" Harry muttered. Neville chuckled heartily.

"Next time you write to your dad, tell me, and I'll give you a paste to send to him - it stimulates the growth of such plants."

Harry turned his head to stare at Neville. Why did Neville have a paste like that at Hogwarts? He wasn't growing tobacco plants in his room, was he?

"Yes, thank you Neville! My father will be so pleased - he was afraid I'd kill the plant. I don't exactly have a green thumb."

"Well then, I have a feeling you're not going to be particularly good at this class." Neville said suddenly. Harry gave him a mock glare and reached towards the Mimbus mimbeltonia, but it instantly shied away from his fingers.

"No seriously, Harry, plants hate you."

"They don't hate me!" He said indignantly and again, reached for the Mimbus mimbeltonia, but it let out a loud screech. He sighed and let his hand drop, defeated. He bowed his head.

"Fine. They hate me."

.

Potions was a little more interesting. Well a lot more interesting. Harry had been looking forward to this class for some time seeing as it seemed to have a lot of parallels with chemistry, and he adored chemistry.

And so, it was with a very bouncy step and an extremely happy attitude that he came down to the dungeons, not in the least concerned with the dim lighting and the jeering faces of older Slytherins. As it turned out, the Ravenclaws would have potions with the Hufflepuffs, seeing as the Slytherins had it with the Gryffindors.

Naturally, Harry was excited to see his very good friend, Justin and Neville already standing by the door, conversing in quiet tones. A few other Hufflepuff students - Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and some other students (whose names Harry didn't know) were standing closer to the stairs, shooting the walls fearful glances, as though Slytherin territory was going to swallow them up.

Hermione was standing close to a large group composed of her housemates, shooting them fearful but hopeful glances, as though simultaneously hoping but fearing a friendship with one of them. Harry had gone up to the Ravenclaw tower during the ten minute break between classes and now had a potions textbook and a muggle notebook clutched under his arm. In his pocket, he could hear the faint swishing sound of ink in a bottle. His quill was clutched in his other hand.

"What's the point in using a muggle notebook, and not using a ball point pen?" Hermione asked him as he approached. Neville and Justin both turned at the sound of footsteps echoing in the dungeons. Justin's face lit up in a bright smile.

"Harry! Mate - I saw what happened with that flesh eating plant. Kind of proves what your dad was saying about you been crap with plants, doesn't it?"

"It's not a flesh eating plant, Justin. It just chops off extremities." Neville said.

"Well… that's kind of useless, isn't it? Why does it chop off extremities?" Justin questioned.

Neville blinked, then frowned bemusedly. "Actually… I don't know. I'll go to the library later, see what I can find out."

"Oh! I'll come with you - if you don't mind…" Hermione trailed off, staring at the ground. Neville smiled at her gently, blushed and nodded.

"Of course you can come with me."

Harry bit his lip to stop his face from becoming one large and happy emoji and saw Justin doing the same. Justin looked away to not laugh. Finally, Neville was coming out of his shell. So was Hermione for that matter. It was so adorable to see two shy people interacting with each other.

"So, Harry, you never answered Hermione's question," Neville asked suddenly, completely oblivious to Justin's and Harry's silent exchange.

"Hmm - question? Oh! Right. I guess I hate writing in scrolls. I mean parchment! It's so unreliable… and it takes aaaages for the ink to dry. Besides, it's incredibly hard to keep all of the papers together. That's why I plan on using my notebook and as for the quill - I guess i just like writing with them. Dad made me learn how different writing utensils write differently. Quills are my favourite-"

Harry's speech was interrupted as the door flew open, seemingly via magic. Well… probably due to magic.

All of the students filed in quickly, shooting the teacher - the greasy haired and hook-nosed teacher - hesitant and furtive glances. Once everyone had settled into their seats, the teacher crossed his arms dramatically. He was tall and exceedingly lean (much like Harry's father). His cheeks were hollow and his lips thin and turned downwards - a feature that only came from frowning a lot. His eyes were sharp and dark. They shot from student to student, examining every detail in a space of several seconds. Harry had never been reminded of his father more than in that moment.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…." Harry suddenly felt giddy. This seemed a lot like chemistry.

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." More silence followed this little speech and Harry looked around excitedly, desperately trying to find someone who was as happy and giddy as he was about beginning.

Needless to say, the class was a disappointment. Some of the Hufflepuffs looked ready to faint and most of the Ravenclaws looked quite bored. Knowing them, they had already read the textbook. Hermione, who was sitting at the same table as Justin, Neville and Harry was on the edge of her seat. She seemed dead set on proving that she was in fact, not a dunderhead.

"My name is Professor Snape - you will address me as such - and I will be your teacher for the following seven years. Questions?" Obviously, Snape didn't think anyone was going to ask a question because he opened his mouth to continue, but Harry's hand shot into the air. Snape seemed torn, as though he really wanted to ignore him for some reason, but eventually he caved and nodded to him.

"Yes, Potter? Does the Boy-Who-Lived want to contribute his never-ending knowledge to the lesson?"

Harry frowned at the very obvious jab at him, quite childish too. "Sir," Harry paused, trying to compose his chaotic thoughts, "My name is Harry Potter-Holmes, and the Boy-Who-Lived is a title the wizarding nation has started calling me by. I by no means identify with that, as I have only known I am a wizard for a few weeks. I also do not wish to delude myself into thinking that I defeated the Dark Lord, for I was a baby and there was no witness, therefore the Boy-Who-Lived is a title originating from guesswork." Harry paused for a moment.

"Now, as to my question. You said that magic is involved in potion making - but how is this possible if we do not use a wand in this class? From what I understand, potions is very similar to chemistry and muggles most definitively do not use magic. Of course, it is possible that wizards use wandless magic… Then again I heard recently that wandless magic is quite a rarity, therefore it can't be that-"

"Potter! Cease your rambling this moment!"

Harry blinked at the sudden interruption and his gaze refocused. He found that the class was staring at him and that Snape was standing directly in front of him. A deep and angry frown marred his face but behind the mask covering his eyes, Harry could see something akin to interest lurking there.

"It's Potter-Holmes… sir."

"Five points from Gr - Ravenclaw Potter-Holmes for your cheek." He turned his head away from Harry, and started pacing up and down the front of the class. His gaze wandered a few times in Harry's general direction. His eyes were narrowed, as though he was concentrating very strongly on figuring out something.

"Wizards and Witches exude a non-visible magical aura, this is why no wizard or witch can interact with electrical devices for long, without them breaking (Harry smirked, he was all too familiar with this). This is also the reason why squibs can only make a limited amount of potions - Potions, that don't require much magical aura. For the different potion ingredients to interact with each other, they need a magical aura."

Harry raised his hand again. Snape stared at him (again) for a moment as though searching for something that was not there, then sighing he nodded to him.

"So, in essence: magical auras are a catalyst for ingredients in potions?"

Snape deliberated for a moment. Then nodded. "Correct, Mr Potter-Holmes. Four points to Ravenclaw."

Snape rambled on for a while. He spoke about the specifics of potion making and about how the way ingredients were cut was essential to the potency of the potion. He spoke about how heat influenced the colour, consistency, taste and much more. Snape also told them, that in their first and second year they would be working in pairs and after that, they would start working independently - once Snape deemed them well enough to work alone.

The steam rising from the large pewter cauldrons was obscuring Harry's view to the black board. He tried waving his hand in front of him, to break the steady flow of steam apart, but Snape shot him a withering glare and rolling his eyes, Harry turned to Justin (who has his potions' partner). "Can you read the black board? The steam is a little heavy."

"The potion is in your text book, you know," Hermione said in a rather nasal voice. She sneezed suddenly and turned back to them, eyes watery. Justin laughed non-maliciously.

"I'll have you know, my nose and eyes don't agree with onions!" Hermione dabbed her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. Neville meanwhile, took the knife and continued the work Hermione had started.

"Thanks, Neville," she said, her voice watery.

"Could we borrow your book?" Justin asked, grimacing slightly as Snape shot him a glare for speaking.

"Don't you have your own?" Neville whispered back, sending fearful glances at Snape's back.

"Justin forgot his, and mine is slightly outdated. It was published before this potion was invented," Harry explained with a deep sigh.

"Well then take a quick glance at it - before Snape turns around."

The rest of the lesson progressed with almost any hiccups. Almost.

One Hufflepuff student who had been working with Kevin Entwistle set his robes on fire and he had to go up to the infirmary with second degree burns.

The bell rang, and almost instantly, everyone started to pack up. While potions was an interesting subject, Snape's presence was so dominant and intimidating that even Harry who had been threatened by criminals dozens of times, felt a tingling sense of fear every time Snape walked by him.

"Potter. Stay behind."

That one command froze the class for a second, then they continued packing up. Many of them gave Harry sympathising looks when they thought Snape wasn't looking. Once the potions were all bottled, the cauldrons washed and the class empty, Harry walked up to the large desk in front of the class. Snape stood behind him.

"My name is Harry Potter-Holmes, sir."

"Excuse me?" Snape didn't sound apologetic at all. His eyebrow was raised in a show of condescension.

"You told me to stay behind, but you only called me by Potter, sir. My name is Harry Potter-Holmes."

"Very well, I shall call you Mr Potter Holmes."

The classroom became silent and the atmosphere even more intense. Harry could almost swear that the shadows coming from the different candles lighting the room were moving of their own accord.

"Sit," Snape said very suddenly and waved his hand. A chair from one of the workstations started moving towards Harry and then collided with the back of Harry's knees, forcing him to sit down. Snape sat down in his own chair.

"Professor Dumbledore has instructed me to find out were you have been living."

"Forgive me sir, but I fail to see how that is your or the headmaster's business," Harry bit the inside of his cheek the moment he said that. He would have gotten a stern gaze from John if he had been there.

"Look, Potter," the man stared at Harry's face for a moment, then rolled his eyes, "Fine Potter-Holmes, I am giving you a fair warning here. The headmaster has plans for you; I cannot say more for I am bound under vows of secrecy, but know this, he is obsessed. He may seem like a benevolent headmaster, but he's a very manipulative old man and he will use any means to reach his ends. I do not care where you have been for the past few years.

"You have not been with Petunia Dursley - Lily Ev-Potter's sister - (that much is obvious) for if you had, you would be half starved and half dead. Whoever took you in has been treating you well. I do not take interest in your affairs for they are your own. Good day Mr Potter-Holmes."

Snape's head tilted downwards and he started to read through papers that was presumably summer homework from another class. Harry continued staring at the man, mouth open in shock as he tried to register all that had been said.

"Don't you have anywhere to be?" Snape asked irritably, not for one moment looking up from the papers which were already covered with more red ink than black.

"You know my aunt?"

"What?"

"You said Petunia Dursley. I know her family - I lived with them for a few years. That is, till my father - my real father - found me."

Snape looked mildly surprised. His facial expression was frozen somewhere halfway between anger and surprise. Finally, after a few more moments of awkward silence the man nodded.

"Yes, I was her neighbour growing up. Also I was good friends with your mother," he said softly then suddenly, his tone turned very harsh, "Now, Mr Potter-Holmes, do you also want to coincidentally know the name of the street where I live?"

Harry rapidly shook his head 'no'.

"Well, then. I suggest you get out."

Needless to say, Harry had never left a room so quickly.

…

"Lemon drop, Severus?"

Snape glared at the old man. Dumbledore sighed disappointedly and gestured at the plush chairs facing the windows overlooking the Hogwarts grounds.

"I understand your first potions' lesson with our dear Harry was today?"

"Correct."

"And had Harry… said anything about his living arrangements?" _Translation: Did you ask him where he lives and who his guardian is?_

"He insists that we - the professors - call him Mister Potter-Holmes. It is therefore safe to assume that the name of his guardian is Holmes. He hasn't confided anything else in me." Snape didn't even bat an eyelash at his own blatant lie.

It was evident that James Potter wasn't Harry's real father. A lot of the boys facial structure was aristocratic and sharp, but not in the same way that James had been. Harry had inherited Lily's talent for potions, and her nose and eyes. But there wasn't a single bit of James Potter in Harry. Besides, Harry himself had insinuated that his 'real' father had collected him after Harry had landed at the Dursleys. The headmaster, and the other teachers seemed to have the inability to see the fact that Harry wasn't James' son. Maybe they simply didn't want to.

"Very well, Severus. See if you can find out more."

The dismissal was clear and Snape stood up and marched out of the office, his robes billowing behind him.

He had told Harry that he didn't care _where_ or with _whom_ Harry lived, but the fact was the curiosity was like an itch that wouldn't go away until it was scratched. He would find out.

* * *

**Ok, in case you didn't get it, everyone who has talked to Harry (with the exception of Snape) thinks that Harry Potter is Harry Potter but was adopted by a Holmes family. **

**Thank you for reading.**

**Also - I wish you all a very happy new year!**

**Anonymous Reviews:**

**KK: **Thank you for your review! Your questions about the Ravenclaw password will be answered in the next chapter. But thank you for making me think about it!

**Jess: **Thank you!

**MRG101: **Awwww thank you! That's a very nice thing to hear!


	17. (AN) - Sorry!

Dear, wonderful readers,

It is with a bowed head and a sad heart that I say to you that I have decided that this story is going on a hiatus.

Before I state my reasons, I would like to apologise for creating a whole new chapter for an (A/N). As fanfiction reader myself I also very much hate that.

My reasons:

1\. Recently, it has been pointed out that my story has a lot of plot-holes and inconsistencies.

2\. It has also been pointed out, that the character development is too sudden and rushed.

3\. The plot-line is rushed.

3.5 My main concern has become reviews. I write chapters _for _reviews not for the sake of writing.

4\. The first ten chapters about Harry settling into life with Sherlock are absolutely useless.

5\. My grammar has gone to shit.

6\. I ramble - Harry rambles about inconsequential things that honestly bore the reader and make him/her skip lines.

7\. Unfortunately, like most seventeen year old people, I have school. This is not an excuse, but an explanation. I am not Chronos and I cannot simply make time meaning that _when _I manage to write fanfiction, I do it at 3am in the morning on a Saturday.

8\. Basically, I don't like the way my story is turning out. At all. Even one of my friends who constantly bullies me into writing a new chapter (and seems to actually like the story) mentioned to me that the newest chapter was very long and slightly boring. No flaming at her please - she was right.

The bottom line is, this story is going on a (hopefully) short break. I am going to revise it, go over _all _of the problems and try to solve them as best I can. This time, I _will _find a good beta reader to finally correct my mistakes after I am finished editing.

Nevertheless, I would like to tip my hat to my old readers who have stayed with me this long (OMG THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THIS STORY WAS TWO DAYS AGO), and to my new readers who are just as wonderful. A big thank you also to my wonderful reviewers who motivate me a lot.

I hope I haven't disappointed you much. I also wish you all the best in the New Year.

Goodbye! (Hopefully not for long!)


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